Trust Issues
by Hekate1308
Summary: Sherlock Holmes had always trusted DI Greg Lestrade. But when it turned out the detective might have brought an innocent man behind bars, Sherlock didn't know what to think. Post-Reunion.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: I'm back, my friends!**

**And, don't worry, I'll answer your reviews. It's just... I'd never have thought I'd get that many while being gone for a few days. Wow. Just wow.**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

It all began with a crime scene. All in all, it was a fitting beginning, considering that they had even met at one.

It had been almost nine years ago. DI Greg Lestrade had been called out on a cold wet Saturday night because a young drunk woman had stumbled over a body in a dark alleyway. It was at times like these, he had mused while trying to disappear into his coat (he had forgotten his umbrella, he always did, other than his newly promoted Sergeant, Donavan, who didn't even think about offering him shelter) that he began to wonder why he had always wanted to join the police force in the first place.

The body had reminded him why. They usually did. Thankfully, the forensic team under Anderson (he might not like him, but Greg had to admit that the man was good at what he did) had already put up a tent over the victim.

It was a young man – he couldn't have been older than twenty-five, and he was well-dressed in a dark suit with matching tie. He didn't look like the type of person usually associated with violent deaths in dark alleyways, but if Greg had learned one thing in his job, it was never to let oneself be blinded by prejudices.

Even without the medical examiner, he could see that the young man had been stabbed, and as the first lightning of the night (there went any hope that the rain would stop soon) he knelt down to examine the wound.

Only to jump back up a moment later when all of a sudden someone behind him said, "The killer was a woman. His lover, I'd say".

Greg turned around only to find be blinded by lightning. Once his sight had returned, he saw an impossibly thin young man about thirty, wearing a jacket definitely too light for this weather, not caring that he was wet to the bone, and definitely high. Probably cocaine or heroin.

Greg really should have called Donavan and an officer in uniform and have him arrested there and then, but for some reason (he still couldn't explain it) he hadn't. Instead, he had stared at the strange apparition and asked, raising his voice so the question wouldn't be lost in the thunder, "What?"

The young man had rolled his eyes and explained, "His lover. She killed him. It's obvious."

By this time, Greg had realized that there was indeed a drug addict standing in his crime scene – and not only that, but standing in the tent where the body lay – and had acted accordingly. He had cleared his throat and asked, "Who are you?"

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes" the man had explained, before kneeling down like he owned the place and looking over the victim, mumbling to himself as he did so. Greg was taken aback, simply because the addict seemed to take it for granted; Sherlock Holmes apparently didn't believe that anyone was allowed to interrupt his thoughts, no matter that he had just entered a crime scene without being allowed to.

Greg, while being intrigued by this visitor, and determined to learn how he'd managed to sneak into a crime scene, had told him that he was arrested and called for backup, and Sherlock had simply seemed annoyed.

This, of course, had only caused Greg's fascination to grow; why would a drug addict break into a crime scene and tell everyone who would listen who had committed the murder?

Nonetheless, he had finally called for assistance and had arrested Sherlock Holmes despite his protests. And yet –

There had been something... different about this young addict from the start. Something that had prompted Greg to visit him, to ask him why he was so sure that the lover of the dead man had been the murderer all along.

Sherlock Holmes had told him why – while looking rather bored, Greg couldn't deny that – and it had turned out that he'd been right all along.

Not before Greg had been kidnapped by the British Government, however; and, looking back and knowing both the Holmes brothers, he didn't understand why Mycroft had waited several hours to begin with. He had been too exhausted to drive home, been prepared to catch a cab, when a black limousine had stopped next to him, and the young woman in it had made clear that he shouldn't resist.

He really should have known that the posh guy with the umbrella in his right hand was Sherlock's brother, or at least he thought so now. The British Government simply had Holmes written all over him.

Anyway, the strange man had demanded that he release Sherlock immediately, and threatened him with serious consequences – and, strangely, Greg hadn't doubted that this man was able to make or break his career.

He had still interviewed Sherlock the next day, of course he had; and during the interview, he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that this young man – despite being a cocaine addict (which had been confirmed by this point through the blood tests) – was someone special, someone who deserved to be looked after.

To this day, Greg didn't understand how someone like Mycroft Holmes could allow his younger brother to live on the streets and yet kidnap everyone he came into contact with.

Needless to say, Sherlock had been right all along, which was why Greg found himself looking for the young man at every street corner in London a week later.

Thankfully it hadn't rained when he finally found him and made him the offer of working with the police (naturally he had snorted at "working with") as long as he got clean. As he had learned several years later (and only because John Watson had thought the idea of Sherlock Holmes taking drugs utterly ridiculous), it was the only time telling Sherlock to quit the drugs had actually worked.

And yet, somehow their relationship had become even more complicated than helping a cocaine addict overcome his addiction, because, as soon as Sherlock had become clean (and called him in the middle of the night to tell him about it, expecting Greg to welcome him with open arms, which the DI, despite the fact that he really shouldn't have, had done in the end), either he or Mycroft had texted him to tell him when there was a "danger night", or when Sherlock had once again decided to run after a dangerous criminal, or when the consulting detective ( a title he had one day coined with the help of Greg) decided he was bored and needed company.

In the end, Greg didn't mind. He and Sherlock had somehow formed a connection, a connection no one (not even he) understood, but a connection he certainly didn't want to lose.

And he didn't. Not even when John Watson became Sherlock's flatmate and best friend. Because while John certainly understood Sherlock in a way Greg never had, the DI had known him longer and, despite what Sherlock said, he was still a police man, and a good one at that, so that they had something in common – there professional passion for investigating crimes – that John simply couldn't share.

The only time it had felt like he'd lost Sherlock was when the consulting detective seemed to have committed suicide and Greg had been forced to live with his ghost for three long years, trying to come to terms with the fact that he had helped Moriarty to accomplish his goal, in a way.

At least until he came home one evening only to find a very much alive Sherlock Holmes on his sofa. Apparently John hadn't taken the news too well and Sherlock needed a place to stay.

Of course Greg let him. He knew he should probably have reacted like John had, but he couldn't bring himself to. Not when he had only just got Sherlock back. So he simply sat down next to him, not saying anything, and it hadn't taken long before John had knocked on the door, thinking that Sherlock could only have gone to Greg, desperate to be let in.

The three of them had talked through the night, and ever since then (after Mycroft had taken care of the suspicions regarding the cases Sherlock had worked on) things had gone back to normal. Or rather, to whatever "normal" entailed when you were friends with Sherlock Holmes.

And then came the case that, once again, changed everything.

Greg was sitting in his office on a Thursday morning, a little tired because he had once again spent the evening at Baker Street and only come home at 2 o' clock. This had happened more and more often since Sherlock's return; usually he would come over several times a week, listening to Sherlock's playing the violin, talking to him and John about the cases, drinking tea with them. Most of the time, he used the key he had received the day Sherlock had moved in 221B from an anonymous source to let himself in, and none of them complained.

He always told himself to leave earlier the next time, but it never worked, and somehow, remembering the three years without his friends (John had been more dead than alive, and Sherlock... but he didn't like to think about it, even now) he could never bring himself to regret it. Even if he had a hard time getting up to get to work on time.

So he was just drinking his third coffee in less than an hour when someone knocked on the door. Donavan entered as soon as he called out.

"Sir, there has been a double murder".

He decided to look around the crime scene before calling Sherlock; the consulting detective (while trying to be a bit more understanding ever since his return) still didn't like being called out for "minor" cases that "everyone, including Anderson was able to solve". So he finished his coffee and let Donavan drive – even though he had been the one to blame, the one to go to the Chief Superintendent with her and Anderson, he still didn't like working with her, but there was nothing else to do – and soon enough, they arrived at the crime scene.

Greg had seen many things in his almost thirty years of police work.

But this –

The couple had been slaughtered. There was no other word for it. Several stab wounds, the murderer had even kept stabbing them after they had lost consciousness –

And it was then that DI Greg Lestrade sent Sherlock Holmes a text.

Because he had seen this before.

**Author's note: I thought I would publish this later but then I read this wonderful news (we all know what I am talking about) and I decided another multiple chapter fic was due in order to celebrate. **

**Although this is more of a prologue, because I wanted to show Lestrade's and Sherlock's relationship through my eyes before going into details.**

**Updates may not be as frequent due to real life.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's notes: Reviews? And followers? This is wonderful! I'd never have expected such a response... It's Rupert Graves, isn't it? **

**Because I'm so happy about this, I wanted to give you an update today, so... here it is.**

**Anyway, I can promise more of a story this time.**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

As soon as Greg had taken a look at the two bodies, he started searching for his mobile phone; as usual, it was in the last pocket he searched through.

But it really didn't matter. He barely noticed how much time had passed while he was searching for his phone, because –

The young couple, both in their mid to late twenties, had been stabbed and laid out at a right angle of each other on the living room floor. There was something familiar about this scene.

Before he had met Sherlock Holmes, DS Greg Lestrade had caught the man responsible for six murders (three couples stabbed in their homes).

Jeremy Dowling.

And this man was still in jail.

How well Greg could remember the day he had finally been able to arrest the "Couple Killer" as the press had (unoriginally) dubbed him; how well could he remember the man's face as he was taken from the court, to spend the rest of his life behind bars...

Greg shook himself. There was no reason to suppose he had arrested the wrong man, at least not yet (although he couldn't help but remember his doubts at the time, because the evidence tying the man suddenly to the crimes had been too perfect); for all he knew, the killer could be a copycat. The murders had been well-publicised...

Although there had been some details...

"Donavan, would you please lift the woman's blouse?" he asked, trying to appear as calm as possible.

Donavan turned around and looked at him, baffled. "But sure, the medical examiner hasn't arrived yet..."

"Do as I say" he barked, and would probably have felt guiltier about it before – before everything, before Moriarty's last stand, before Sherlock had disappeared. And apparently he wasn't the only one remembering the years without the consulting detective, because Donavan kneeled down next to the woman without another word and raised her blouse.

Even though Greg had expected it, he couldn't help but shudder when he saw the flower sliced into the woman's skin, right over her left hipbone.

It had been one of the details not released to the press; one of the details that –

That only the killer would know about.

Once again his instincts had been right. He wasted no time in sending Sherlock a text – he simply sent him the address with the words "double murder", believing that the consulting detective, that his friend would either ask for more information or come directly, and started searching the house while waiting for the medical examiner and the one man he was sure could solve this case.

Sherlock was once again experimenting in their kitchen while John was reading, or at least pretending to read, a book. Sherlock could tell that the doctor hadn't turned a page in the last ten minutes, although he certainly wouldn't mention it. Not when John had only just gone through another break up because of him.

Although Mary had been quite patient, all things considered, John giving up his job to be able to help Sherlock full-time had been the last straw. And, to be honest, the doctor hadn't seemed too sad about it either. Sherlock had decided, as soon as he had deduced what had happened, that it would be best not to comment on it; John preferred not to talk about such news.

And, predictably enough, John laid his book aside and came into the kitchen.

"You know about me and Mary" he stated.

Sherlock nodded without taking his eyes of his experiment (despite what his blogger might think, the effect if acid on the decomposition of human toes was important) and answered, "I assumed you wouldn't want to talk about it".

"You were right" John replied, walking over to the kettle. "But, just so you know, it wasn't your fault".

"I know" Sherlock answered, deciding not to show his confusion; if John had decided it was important that he knew it wasn't his fault, it probably was from an ordinary human standpoint. And his friend knew him well enough to realize he had already come to this conclusion.

As it turned out John had because he simply laughed. "Of course you do". As he filled the kettle, he added, "She was never going to be the most important person in my life and she knew it" with an air of finality. Sherlock chose not to answer, aware that he would probably say the wrong thing and that John was more than capable of realizing he wasn't being intentionally rude.

Just after John had put the kettle on Sherlock's text alert chimed and he muttered, "Pass me my phone, please". John, although grumbling about how the consulting detective could really get his phone out of his own pocket, still came over and took it out of his jacket, like Sherlock had known he would. Without being asked to do it, his blogger read the message aloud. "124 Hanburry Street. Double murder".

"Nothing else?" Sherlock asked, still occupied with his experiment. When John answered in the negative, however, he looked up and frowned. Lestrade – or, rather Greg, since he called the detective by his first name these days – never sent texts with so little information; he either let him know why he would be interested through a few simple words, or he called (his DI preferred calling anyway, a text was in itself unusual).

So, if he decided to send a text...

"John, are you coming?" Sherlock asked, already looking for his coat. It was more of a rhetorical question; ever since he had returned, his doctor had accompanied him on every single case. John didn't even answer, choosing instead to simply grab his jacket and follow him.

Sherlock could tell that something was bothering John on the way to the crime scene, so he stated, "You have questions".

John once again shook his head at him, although he didn't seem to be angry. "Just one. Why would Greg send you a text without telling you why the case is interesting? Normally he sends you details."

Sherlock shrugged, not bothering to hide his concern; John would be able to see through that in a second anyway, and since he had admitted right after his return how Moriarty had (apparently) forced him to commit suicide, his doctor wouldn't believe him to be unconcerned anyway. "I don't know".

John's eyes sparkled mischievously. "The great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know? Let me call the press".

Sherlock huffed. "There are too many variables".

"Of course there are" John commented, although there was a note of fondness in his voice. And just a little bit of concern. Greg had tried to be there for the doctor after Sherlock's "death", but John hadn't been able to forget that he'd played a part in Moriarty's game, albeit unwillingly. Sherlock's reappearance, however, had led them to grow closer than ever. John still felt guilty (although there was no reason to) about how he had treated the DI during the last three years, despite Greg's many attempts to convince John that he hadn't minded, that it was fine.

Sherlock was just as worried as John, though he didn't bounce his knee and stare absently out the window to show it. He was busy deducing what could have made Greg send such a message, a message the DI must have known would most likely lead to him asking for further information –

Or Greg knew him better than he'd supposed and had suspected that Sherlock would show up simply because the message was so cryptic. If so, Sherlock had to give him credit.

When they got out of the cab, Sherlock immediately spotted Donavan outside the house and sighed, only to be surprised a few moments later when she walked towards them and announced worriedly "He's inside".

There had been a time when Sherlock would simply have made a comment about Anderson (who had once again returned to his wife two weeks ago), but now, he simply swept past her, John at his heels.

When the consulting detective saw his DI'S face, he knew that he had been right to be worried.

**Author's note: Chapter! Shorter than I would have liked, but still: chapter! I'm happy I managed to put something up today... Everyone likes a fanfic that updates frequently, don't they?**

**I once again got rid of Mary because I don't want anyone to come between the bromance I love so much... plus, it made for a good Sherlock and John opening... **

**I was going to say that this story moved quicker than my other multi-chapters and then I read this update again. Oops. Well, my regular readers will know that this is how it usually goes with me...**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: I got more reviews! Yippie! So I decided to write as quickly as I could and give you another update. Aside from the fact that I'm starting to really enjoy this story (I can almost hear the groans of "Oh no, this is going to take forever").**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

Keeping calm (as long as he didn't know exactly what was going on, he refused to be worried – theoretically) Sherlock greeted the DI with a simple "Greg".

Instead of responding he turned around, leading the way into the living room. Sherlock shot John a look, not bothering to hide anymore that he was worried. The DI always greeted them, even if it was just a small nod (at least when they met in person, when they talk over the phone, it was in fact rather – when had his mind palace become so full of unimportant information he somehow didn't think unimportant anymore?)

John, of course, always the doctor, decided to show his worry immediately, walked past Sherlock, grabbed the DI's arm and asked, "Greg. Are you alright?"

Greg gave him a pained smile and looked from John to Sherlock. "No, not really. I just don't want to say anything that could influence your conclusions".

"Since when is anyone capable of that?" Sherlock asked with a small smirk.

It was a blatant why, which everyone currently standing in the hallway was aware of; he had talked about the cases with John and Greg more times than he could count. But it did the trick. The DI's smile looked a little less pained as he stepped through the door of the living room.

Sherlock knew what was going on as soon as he entered and saw the victims lying on the floor. He really should have realized it sooner; a nice house, obviously inhabited by a young couple, and Lestrade acting this way –

There was only one explanation. There couldn't have been another explanation.

Jeremy Dowling.

Sherlock had still been a cocaine addict when the man had been arrested, and, if he was correct (and he most likely was) he had been in America and had just met Mrs. Hudson. That hadn't stopped him from being informed about crimes committed in England, however, and he had read all about the "Couple murderer". He had paid more attention to the case and the criminal than the DS who caught him, naturally, so hadn't realized until he had worked with Greg for quite some time (and had been looking through his old files, on order to enlarge the archive in his mind palace dedicated to the anals of crime) that it had been his DI who did it.

In fact, Sherlock was ready to bet (while still not being a betting man) that this capture had been what brought him his Inspector badge.

There had been one detail in particular that had never been published; the signature of the killer.

And if Greg was worried, that must mean...

"John, would you lift her blouse, please? There should be a flower carved into the skin over her left hip bone".

John looked at him, obviously wondering whether to ask about it now, before deciding, after glancing at Greg's still worried expression, to do what he'd been told, and kneeling down next to the body.

A moment later, he said, "You were right".

He looked at Greg, then at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. "Care to tell me what this is all about?"

Greg took a deep breath. "Almost twelve years ago, three years before I met Sherlock, I was still a DS and was put in charge of a serial killer investigation. Six bodies in as many months. I knew it could either break or make my career.

The press had dubbed him the "Couple murderer" because he always killed young couples in their mid-to-late twenties, laying them out in a right angle to each other in the living room. And he always carved a flower into the woman's skin. Over the left hip bone. This detail was never published – we didn't want to encourage copycats. So, naturally, when I saw the crime scene, I asked Donavan to check for the flower, and – "

"So you think these murders are connected to the old case?" John asked, looking expectantly at him, and Greg sighed internally. Bless the good doctor. John knew what he must be thinking, of course he did; the man wasn't stupid. And yet here he was, waiting for the DI to say it first.

Come to think of it, Greg would have expected Sherlock to have said something about "incompetence" and "wrong man" by now, but it wouldn't be the first time the consulting detective surprised him since his return. Sherlock had changed during the three years he had been dismantling Moriarty's web, there was no denying that. Now and then, he even showed Greg that he enjoyed his presence, something he'd never have done before... everything.

So, maybe, Sherlock being strangely quiet wasn't a surprise at all.

Greg rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm starting to fear that we might have arrested the wrong man all these years ago. And that would mean..."

"Don't theorize without data, Greg" Sherlock said, obviously trying to be comforting, even though it appeared more as a desperate attempt to conceal what they all thought. The DI was touched nonetheless. It confirmed once again what he had been suspecting for years: Sherlock Holmes was a good man. He just didn't like to show it.

The consulting detective added "Jeremy Dowling was a plausible suspect".

Greg nodded. "He was. He had a record – GBH and attempted rape. He didn't have a job. He was a loner without friends or family – not necessarily the sign of a serial killer, but it certainly would have made it easier for him to come and go at all hours without anyone ever asking where he'd been. And he never could prove an alibi."

"But that wasn't what eventually led to his conviction, was it?" Sherlock asked.

Greg nodded again, and John, who had by this time stood up again – after checking the stab wounds of the victims – came to stand beside him.

"What was it?" the doctor asked.

Greg shook his head. "One of the most stupid mistakes I have ever seen a criminal make. He had never left a shred of forensic evidence – and then he lost his car keys at the third crime scene. With his fingerprints all over them."

"He insisted he had lost them a few days prior" Sherlock interrupted him, naturally. "However, seeing as they were recovered in the living room next to the bodies, nobody believed him".

"I wouldn't have either" John responded, looking over to where the victims lay. "I counted twenty-two stab wounds on the man, twenty-seven on the woman. We'll have to wait for the autopsy to tell us if she was raped – "

"But in cases like this, the stab wounds could very well represent the penetration the killer can't perform himself" Sherlock finished, and Greg would have been amused if it had been any other case. These two were definitely spending too much time together.

Or, perhaps, all three of them were spending too much time together, because the next thing to come out of his and Sherlock's mouth at the same time was "We need to talk to Jeremy Dowling" and he could hear John suppressing a chuckle behind his back.

"Donavan" Greg called out. The Sergeant appeared immediately, despite the fact that Anderson must have arrived by now, but then again, the DI had suspected for quite some time that their relationship – for lack of a better word – had gone downhill ever since Sherlock's disappearance. She even tried to be somewhat polite to Sherlock now and then, although not often, which was met by... Greg should probably call it "polite ignoring" of the consulting detective's.

As he did now. He even failed to mention that she had been loitering in the hallway – there was a white spot on her skirt she had yet to notice where she had apparently been leaning against the wall who had been painted only a few days –

Good God. He was definitely spending too much time at Baker Street. But, considering that Sherlock hadn't insulted Donavan once, probably to spare Greg, he couldn't bring himself to care.

"We are going to Pentonville" he could have sworn that John's breath hitched at the word, and he couldn't blame him, he didn't have the best associations with the place either, although Sherlock, once again, didn't seem to be affected. "We need to talk to Jeremy Dowling".

Donavan knew about the case, everyone at the Yard did, and it looked like she wanted to ask something, to protest, but stopped herself when she saw his face.

They left the house – Anderson was standing at the foot of the stairwell, a sneer on his face, and seemed ready to hurl another insult at Sherlock, when Donavan either shot him a look or gave him a sign; either way, he looked angry and stomped up the stairs without saying a word, for which Greg was grateful.

They took a police car to the prison – Sherlock for once ready to use one. They didn't talk much; not even John, who liked to ask questions during rides such as these, if only to have something to talk about (the doctor had never much liked silence, which might be another reason why he was the only human being capable of living with Sherlock) said anything.

They wouldn't have been able to talk freely anyway, not with a PC driving them.

Time seemed to pass quicker than usual, in a way, far too quickly for Greg's liking. In no time, they were at Pentonville, explaining why they were there to the guard on duty, who, after seeing Greg's ID, immediately had them shown to the visitors room, where, soon enough, Jeremy Dowling was led in.

The man who might be innocent.

And if he was –

Greg had ruined his life.

**Author's note: A little bit longer than yesterday, so I guess it's something. And the update is earlier for once. And we got more case and bromance. Because bromance is all we will ever need. **

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: On with the story – I hope. Anyway, we get a glimpse of the suspect.**

**And there will be bromance. Did I mention that? Just thought I should warn you, in case you weren't prepared.**

**Hints at Grolly too. Because it's cute. **

**I don't own anything, please review.**

Jeremy Dowling didn't seem surprised to see him, and yet, Greg couldn't say that this spoke in any form against him. His face was completely blank, his eyes dead. This was a man who had spent twelve years in prison and knew there was no hope he'd get out sometime soon.

The DI had last seen Dowling at his trial almost twelve years ago, and he was shocked how old the man had become. He had been thirty-five at the time of his arrest, therefore he had to be under fifty; but he looked considerably older. There were large bags under his eyes, and his hair had already turned completely grey.

Greg reminded himself that as of now, they had no proof that Jeremy Dowling was truly innocent and that Jeremy Dowling had been conceited in a fair trial.

"Hello, DS Lestrade..." Dowling said in a flat voice, apparently not interested why the policeman who had arrested him should suddenly show up again and want to talk to him.

"DI" Greg corrected automatically, and the convict's eyes narrowed. Suddenly, Lestrade remembered why he had always like there was more to Dowling than met the eye. After a life spent hunting criminals, one developed a certain instinct, and this instinct had told him that Dowling was there man.

But, then again –

What was his instinct worth? Should he really have been prepared to send a man to prison simply because he disliked him at first sight?

Sherlock cleared his throat and he realized he had stood there long enough, so he replied, "Mr. Dowling. These are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson – "

"I've read about them". Dowling's eyes fixated on John. "Your blog is a good read – for the one hour a week I'm allowed on the internet, anyway".

"Thank you" John answered, and was silent. Apparently the doctor thought Greg would prefer to ask the questions, and he mentally shook himself. John was right. This was his job, and if he had brought an innocent man into jail, he would have to deal with it.

He sat down at the table in the middle of the room, thankful that Sherlock hadn't claimed the chair for himself the moment he entered; the consulting detective was most likely busy deducing everything about Dowling. Maybe there was a simple explanation for all of this, although Greg doubted it.

"Mr. Dowling" he started, finally deciding that, since every communication the prisoner made and his cell was being investigated during their talk, there was no harm in saying anything that might make him suspicious, "Did you talk about the crimes you committed with anyone?"

Life seemed to return to Dowling's eyes; he jumped up, and, if Greg had not held up his hand, he was sure that Sherlock and John would have had the prisoner on the floor long before the prison guards could get there. He had learned long ago never to underestimate either of them, especially not if their friends were in danger.

"I didn't commit any crimes!" Dowling growled, jumping up and glaring at Lestrade, although he made no move towards him.

Typically, Sherlock decided to speak up at this exact moment.

"Untrue, Mr. Dowling. Even disregarding the crimes you are currently imprisoned for, it has been proved that you attacked a man with a hammer seventeen years ago and attempted to rape a young girl only a few weeks after you got out prison".

The look Dowling shot Sherlock was nothing short of vicious, although he made an effort to calm himself. "The sins of youth" he replied, waving a hand and sitting down. Greg could almost feel John's anger, and he would be ready to bet, knowing the consulting detective well enough, that Sherlock was just as appalled as the two of them.

Dowling was a criminal, and an unrepentant one at that. But had he been the murderer all these years ago? If not – who was? And if he had indeed committed the crimes – who had found out about the flower? And why would someone decide to replicate a series of murders that had taken place twelve years ago in the first place?

Greg knew that Sherlock didn't believe in theorizing without data; how could he when his consulting detective kept reminding him of that fact almost every time they worked on a case together (which had become even more frequent since Sherlock had returned)? But this was how he worked, how he thought; he felt that he worked better if he already had thought of a few possibilities.

The problem was that he simply couldn't think of a single one.

"But, to answer your question" Rowling, who now had himself completely under control (he had always seemed a little too clever, the DI remembered now), added, "No. I don't talk about the crimes you think I committed, because I can't. I know nothing about them – except what I read in the papers. I tried to tell you all this twelve years ago. And right now, I have nothing to say to you".

He stood up and let himself be escorted back to his cell. Greg could probably have made him stay, but there was no reason to. If this was a plan of Dowling's to get out by arranging a copycat killing and thereby proving he couldn't have been the murderer, he wouldn't tell them, that was for sure.

So instead he turned around and looked at Sherlock, already aware that it would be difficult even for Sherlock Holmes to say anything about a man who had been locked up for over a decade.

"He spends most of his time reading, he definitely committed GHB and attempted rape" Sherlock said, "But whether he is in contact with anyone... Certainly not face to face. I would have seen that. We must check his emails and any other means of communication he might use..."

Greg nodded, leading the way out of the room and already wondering how long the court order would take. He didn't doubt they would find a judge who would sign it – the murders were enough proof that they at least had to out rule out Dowling as the mastermind behind it all – but it would probably take over a day to...

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock taking out his phone and turned his head, raising an eyebrow.

"Mycroft will take care of it" the consulting detective announced without looking up from the text he was writing, and Greg was strangely touched. While Sherlock and Mycroft seemed to get on better – though not much – since the younger Holmes' return, he still didn't like to ask his brother for anything. But apparently he was ready to do it for him. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and continued walking (but not after catching an amused glance from John – if anyone knew more about the animosity between Sherlock and Mycroft it was the doctor).

Sherlock pocketed his phone, saying "Mycroft will be in touch. Let's go to St. Bart's – I need to look over the evidence. Hopefully Anderson hasn't ruined it".

Hearing Sherlock insult Anderson was strangely comforting, as it proved that their normal weird lives still went on, and Greg hid a smile.

They arrived at the hospital half an hour later, Sherlock immediately getting out of the car and dashing towards the lab, as always excited about the prospect of evidence and science, while John stayed behind to walk with Greg. This was unusual; normally, the doctor did everything he could to be right behind his best friend, especially since Moriarty's last stand. Therefore, it wasn't difficult for the DI to guess what was coming.

He was right. As they walked through the corridors, John slowly asked, "Greg, are you alright?"

Greg tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. "You shouldn't be asking me that – if it turns out I brought the wrong man in jail, you need to ask him".

"Right now, we don't know anything" John answered. They walked in silence for a few minutes before the doctor added, "You had evidence against him, after all".

"Yes – his car keys". Greg sighed. It was time to admit something. "But I – I was always sceptical. I had a feeling that something wasn't right. I should have trusted my instincts and waited for further developments, but the detective I worked with at the time..."

"Waiting would have meant risking more victims" John replied. "And, don't forget, the murders did stop after Dowling was arrested, otherwise he would be a free man now".

Greg nodded, because it was true; the murders had stopped. But, while unusual, there were examples of serial killers who stopped killing for years before starting again, and maybe...

"You really have spent too much time with Sherlock lately" John commented, a twinkle in his eyes. "You just had the exact same expression on your face he usually wears when he's lost in his head".

"You are telling me I spend too much time with him? You finish each other's sentences" Greg pointed out.

"I have other friends" John answered, but it was clear that, instead of being genuinely defensive, he was using their banter to distract Greg.

"Really?"

"Yes. Seen in a mirror lately?"

Greg chuckled, but decided not to answer because there was nothing he could say. Normally none of the three acknowledged that they were friends; the one time he had heard John refer to Sherlock as such had been on his funeral. So they simply went on in silence until they arrived at the lab, where Sherlock was already laying out the evidence on a table and Molly was bringing him several chemicals.

Greg felt his heart beat a little faster and told himself to stop it. He was too old for her anyway.

"Hi Molly" John said, and she gave them both a smile that Greg answered with one of his own.

"Any news?" the DI asked, tearing his gaze away from the pretty pathologist. He knew there wouldn't be, but he hated standing around doing nothing.

Sherlock nodded and looked up, his eyes sparkling.

"There was blood under the woman's fingernails – not her type".

Greg looked at him, not quite believing his ears. "So you are saying – "

"Her murderer might have left his DNA".

**Author's note: A little earlier than yesterday, and about the same length – I am pleased at myself. If I may say so.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: I should probably mention something (or confess, I guess that's more appropriate): I haven't even managed to come to the plot point that came to me when I first thought about this story. This is going to take longer than I thought. However, knowing me, probably not longer than you thought – I'm sure my regular readers are shaking their heads and thinking "She still feels the need to tell us that?"**

**Anyway... More bromance and Grolly!**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

After ten minutes during which his DI had done nothing but pacing up and down, fidgeting and looking miserable and guilty, despite the fact that they hadn't even proved that Jeremy Dowling was innocent of the murders he had been convicted for, Sherlock had enough.

"Greg, I think we should look over the evidence of the six murders Jeremy Dowling was arrested for – just to be on the safe side" he said, realizing immediately that it had been the right thing (if only because his... because his second best friend (when had it come to this, when had he gained enough friends to classify them?) needed something to do). Greg looked up, stopped pacing and answered, "I'll get the files".

Deciding he might as well act on something he had realized a few months ago, Sherlock added, "Molly, why don't you accompany Greg? You can get the forensic evidence while he's busy looking for the files". Molly blushed predictably enough and Sherlock forced himself not to roll his eyes. Relationships, at least romantic ones, had never made much sense to him, although he would freely admit that this was probably due to the fact that he was asexual.

However, he couldn't deny that, as long as it made Greg and Molly happy, he didn't have anything against it. It might even prove advantageous if the pathologist and the DI came together: at least Molly wouldn't be sad because she was single anymore, and Greg would stop wondering why his marriage had gone downhill.

John waited until they had both left the lab to comment, "That was nice, you know".

Sherlock didn't look up from the blood sample as he replied, "Sending them both together will make things move faster", John grumbled something along the lines of "Of course", while trying to mask a certain fondness in his voice that Sherlock had learned to associate with his blogger thinking he had done something right. Smirking to himself, he turned his attention to the task at hand.

John, naturally, had nothing to do other than watch Sherlock do the tests. He didn't know what to think. He trusted Greg, had done so from the moment he met him (although their relationship had been strained in the three years Sherlock had been... gone) and he simply couldn't imagine the DI putting an innocent man behind bars. Plus, the suspect's car keys being found on the scene of the last murders...

He simply couldn't see how Jeremy Dowling might possibly be innocent, but, knowing his best friend, Sherlock had already seven theories. And, maybe, this would all be explained soon enough. Maybe the murderer was a copycat; maybe he had heard about the flower on the woman because he had a friend or relative who was a policeman...

He shook himself. Theorizing without data (as Sherlock never tired of telling him) was dangerous. He would simply have to trust Sherlock's judgement and go from there. Seeing as this was all he'd done ever since he met the consulting detective four years ago, this didn't seem too difficult.

In the meantime, Greg and Molly where walking down a corridor, Greg going to get the files of the murders and Molly to collect the evidence.

After a few minutes, Molly decided to talk.

"Sergeant Donavan told me, when she brought the evidence, that this might be a part of a series of murders that stopped twelve years ago".

"So it is" he answered before realizing something. "Donavan brought the evidence?"

Molly shrugged. "She said she wanted to have it in the lab as quickly as possible". She hesitated before asking, "Is everything alright? She isn't normally so..."

"Polite?" Greg suggested, and she shot him a smile. "That wasn't the word I was looking for".

Greg smiled back and then sighed. He might as well tell her; she would find out anyway. "Twelve years ago, I arrested a man for the murders of three couples. He was convicted and is still serving his sentence".

Molly immediately understood – she might have been shy, but that didn't mean she wasn't intelligent or she wouldn't have become a pathologist in the first place – and answered, "So now, there has been another murder and – "

"It could be the same guy".

Molly said nothing, and Greg was thankful for it. It was this that had first drawn him to her (besides the dress she had worn to that memorable Christmas party, not that he'd ever admit it). Molly Hooper didn't need many words.

Finally she announced, with a voice that brooked no argument, "But you have Sherlock".

He couldn't help but smile, mainly because the fact that a mad genius was on his side gave him hope too. Perhaps Donavan had been right after all, and they all were crazy. He decided he wouldn't care, even if he was.

"Yes, at least I have him – again" he answered without thinking. Molly bit her lip and looked down at the floor, and he almost cursed. The pathologist had spent the three years Sherlock had been gone avoiding talking to anyone for too long, feeling more and more lonely because she had been concerned that she would let slip the consulting detective was alive. Then, after he had returned, she hadn't been able to look anyone in the eyes until John (once he'd allowed himself to let Sherlock out of his sight, which had taken several weeks) had bought her a coffee and explained that "no one with a brain" would blame her for what happened.

"I – I meant" he began to stammer.

"It's alright, Inspector, it really is" she said, looking up.

"Greg" he corrected automatically, and to his surprise, she beamed. "Only if you'll call me Molly".

He was lost for words, so he simply nodded. She stopped walking and he realized they had reached the evidence locker. She smiled at him. "I suppose you are going to get the files now?"

"Yes" he answered.

She nodded and opened the door, but before she entered she turned around. "If you should ever need to... talk, you know, you can always... have a coffee with me. If you want."

This time, he was the one beaming. "Thanks"

She blushed and disappeared in the locker and Greg went off to look for the files in a definitely better mood than he'd been in ten minutes before.

While Sherlock was busy running the DNA test and looking through the other evidence (of which there was almost nothing, except for a little bit of dirt on the carpet – the killer was clever, he had to admit that) his text alert rang out and John, without prompting, walked up to him and got it out of his jacket.

"Mycroft" he informed the consulting detective, before adding, "Jeremy Dowling hasn't had any contact with someone on the outside". Sherlock wasn't surprised; if Dowling was intelligent enough to devise a plan to get out of prison, he could definitely find a way to communicate without leaving traces – Mycroft might have been the British Government, but even he couldn't read minds.

"Maybe it's someone on the inside?" John suggested, laying the phone on the table (pulling a mobile out of someone's jacket while the person was wearing it was easier than putting it in – he had learned that soon after moving in with Sherlock).

"Possibly" Sherlock muttered, looking at the dirt through a microscope before sighing.

"Let me guess; anyone could have brought that dirt into the house" John said.

The consulting detective nodded. "South of the Thames, but other than that..."

At this moment, the door opened and Molly came in with a few bags of evidence. "That is all there was". She put the down on a table and added, "I could go back. Maybe I overlooked something..."

Sherlock stood up and walked over to her, shaking his head. "No; there wasn't more evidence recovered".

"Really?" Molly asked. "Greg told me that there were six murders."

"There were" Sherlock mumbled, already distracted by the precious little of evidence there was – more dirt, a leaf from the second crime scene, and the car keys that had – as far as the police was concerned (no wonder Greg had had doubts, he was after all the most intelligent of the bunch) – proven Dowling's guilt.

As he took the keys over to the table – he could look at the leaf and the dirt later, he was rather sure they would prove absolutely worthless – John turned to Molly and asked grinning "Greg it is?"

She blushed. "He told me to – "

"Of course he did" John teased her, knowing she wouldn't be angry with him, and hoping that Greg would finally do something about his crush on the pathologist. Both he and Molly had been alone for too long.

"That's odd" Sherlock murmured.

"What is odd?" John immediately asked, walking over to his friend.

"No fingerprints, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, swinging the car keys around in front of him.

"Wait, what?" John almost grabbed the keys, simply because he couldn't believe what he'd heard, then reminded himself that he didn't have latex gloves. A second later, Sherlock gave him a pair, and he put them on and took the keys. He saw immediately what Sherlock had meant. The keys looked strangely clean. Who cleaned his car keys?

"But then..." John asked, "how did they even know they were his keys?"

"Good, John. You are once again asking the right questions".

"Which questions?" Greg, who had come through the door at that moment, bearing several files, inquired.

"How you came to even suspect that these were Jeremy Dowling's keys if there were no fingerprints on them. I don't suppose you simply walked up to his car and tried opening it?"

"After he had identified them. We went round to his flat and showed them to him. He didn't even hesitate. Simply admitted he had been looking for them for a few days and used his spare keys to drive".

Sherlock didn't answer; no one said anything because it was clear they all thought the same.

There was a possibility that the keys had been placed on the crime scene. Therefore, Dowling could be innocent – and the killer could have left his blood on purpose to show this.

Then John, who knew that Donavan had only started working with Greg shortly before he met Sherlock, realized something else.

"Who is "we?""

Greg had just opened his mouth to answer when the door to the lab flew open.

"Lestrade, when where you going to tell me that someone killed a couple and left Dowling's signature at the crime scene?"

Greg sighed, forced himself to smile politely and turned around to the newcomer.

**Author's note: Just when I hoped I could write more about the case, I was distracted by the characters... yet again. I can just imagine John grabbing Sherlock's phone out of habit by this point. **

**A little bit earlier again. That's something, at least.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: Let's find out who the newcomer is, shall we?**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

Greg looked at the policeman who had just entered the lab, and, although he tried to be polite, he didn't bother hiding his dislike. The other man knew well enough what he thought about him.

"Inspector Hopkins" he said by way of greeting, already aware that his colleague wouldn't bother to answer it. Instead, predictably enough, Hopkins glared at him. "So, when were you going to tell me?"

"I don't see why I should have told you" Greg answered, deciding to drop even the facade of a polite conversation. "This isn't your case".

"It was my case, however, twelve years ago".

"Our case" Greg corrected just to annoy him. There was no need to remind either of them; Hopkins was a few years older than him and had been a Sergeant too at the time – and disappointed that Greg had been chosen over him to lead the hunt for the murderer, although he had masked it well and never shown any disrespect.

It wasn't that Greg thought Hopkins was a bad police man; he was a little full of himself, no doubt (if something like that would have bothered him, however, he would hardly have been friends with Sherlock Holmes). He also was quite ambitious, which was probably why he hadn't warmed up to Greg, especially after the younger man had become a DI after Dowling's conviction and Hopkins had had to wait for his promotion another two years. But, again, since he had never been a bad policeman, Greg really couldn't hold his ambition against him.

No, the big problem Greg had always had when it came to his colleague was that Hopkins was simply... cold. He was a little too callous, a little too carefree when interviewing the families of victims, when searching for evidence. He wasn't impolite, however, and he produced results.

And yet... They had never seen eye-to-eye during the chase for the Couple murderer. Although Greg had to admit that Hopkins, other than some of his colleagues, hadn't looked down at him after Sherlock had been proclaimed a fraud and disappeared. Maybe they were simply too different (the thought almost made Greg smile – he could be friends with a self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath, but not with a hard working colleague) to get along.

John cleared his throat, and Greg remembered there were other people in the room too.

"Sherlock, John, this is Inspector Stanley Hopkins. Hopkins, these are Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson".

Hopkins nodded without smiling. Greg hadn't expected anything different. Hopkins was one of the few DIs who still, even after Sherlock's return, refused to call in the consulting detective, believing that solving crimes shouldn't be handled by an "amateur". He had never met Sherlock or John, although the former certainly knew all about him, like he did about every detective of Scotland Yard.

Thankfully, Sherlock didn't react to the man's obvious disdain for him and his friend. He simply continued looking over the evidence – in this case, the keys – and ignored Hopkins, who did the same.

Instead, he once more demanded, "And you didn't think I should know?"

"Know what, exactly?" Greg shot back. "Right now, we don't even know if it's the same killer".

"That's right" Molly decided to interrupt.

Hopkins looked and smiled at her in a way that gave Greg a pang of utterly unwarranted jealousy – Hopkins could be quite charming when he wanted to. "Oh, Dr. Hooper, I didn't see you, sorry".

"It's alright" she answered, although she didn't smile at him like she had at Greg, and he really shouldn't have been happy about that fact, but for some reason, he was.

He was also rather glad that he couldn't see John's face from where he was standing, because he was sure the doctor was smiling to himself (he really shouldn't have told him about his infatuation that one night at the pub).

Molly's presence seemed to have reminded Hopkins that Greg had been a DI for longer than he had, and therefore deserved respect, because he was completely calm when he turned back to him and asked, "But once you are sure – will you tell me? Please?"

Greg nodded; there was no reason not to. Hopkins had been with him when Dowling had identified the keys as his; they had interrogated the suspect together; it had been Hopkins' case as well as his, to be honest, and he hadn't understood then, and still didn't understand now, why he had been chosen to be promoted after the conviction.

Although he was certainly glad for it, considering he would never have been able to get anyone to agree with Sherlock's involvement in the cases if he had still been a Sergeant.

Hopkins nodded too, gave Molly one last smile and left the lab.

It was John who broke the silence. "Let me guess: "We" meant you and him?"

"Yes" Greg confirmed, turning to face the doctor.

"Well, he seems..." John was obviously trying to put into words the same feeling Greg had always had when it came to Hopkins, so he decided to interrupt him with "He's a good policeman".

John seemed to understand, because he nodded and turned to Sherlock. "Anything?"

"Nothing" Sherlock answered angrily, throwing the keys on a table. Greg should probably have told Sherlock not to treat evidence like that, but since he'd never bothered with it, he supposed there was no use in starting now.

Molly politely excused herself to start the autopsies and left, smiling at him again as she did so.

Greg laid the files on the previous murders out on the table and said, "I'll just fill you in, shall I?"

Sherlock agreed while staring at the DNA-machine as if willing it to move faster, and John sat down, looking at Greg expectantly. The DI cleared his throat and began.

The first victims were Beth Mellowes and her husband David – 25 and 27 years old – killed on the 27th of November, 2003 in their home; nothing was stolen and she hadn't been raped – but they had both been stabbed repeatedly, even after they were dead."

Greg didn't need to look at the photographs, although Sherlock definitely would. He had been called to the crime scene without being told what had happened – all he'd known was that he was going to the scene of a double murder – and he had been shocked at the ferocity of the killer. Because he had stabbed both of their faces, they had been almost unrecognizable. He still swallowed at the memory.

"They had been laid out in the living room at a right angle from each other – although they had been killed upstairs and carried down. And, of course, a flower had been carved into the woman's skin".

Despite that fact, other than blood stains on the stairs and the room they had been killed in, there had been no traces anyone had been in the house at all. It was almost as if the couple had been killed by a ghost.

"Two months later, Michelle and Tobias Todd were killed – also in their home. Both were twenty-nine years old. They had been killed in the living room – apparently the killer had learned something from his first attack. Same signature."

It had been then that Scotland Yard had realized they must have a serial killer on their hands – no one outside the police had known about the flower. Greg had been made the leader of the hunt to his own surprise, Hopkins had joined him shortly after his appointment.

"Three months after that, Jessica and Martin Finley, 27 and 28 years old. Same MO, same signature. No evidence to speak of".

He sighed as he realized once again how little they had unearthed during their search for the killer. Really, it was no surprise that Hopkins had been so enthusiastic about Dowling as their prime suspect; he had been their only suspect.

The DNA-machine beeped, and Sherlock printed out the profile. "Greg, Dowling's profile has to be in the file somewhere..."

The DI searched for it, gave up after a minute and handed his consulting detective all the files. Sherlock only needed a second to find it and another to announce that it didn't match. It couldn't have – of course it couldn't have – but it was nonetheless a blow, because –

Suddenly, the possibility that he might have cost an innocent (well, not completely, but at least innocent of three double murders) man twelve years of his life came crushing down on him, and he desperately needed a cigarette. He had quit a few years ago, but he didn't care.

"I'll be back in a second" he announced and left the room without giving either of them a chance to reply.

Realizing that John would most likely follow him, he went up to the roof (a place the doctor naturally didn't like to think of) only to realize that he didn't have any cigarettes. He cursed as someone tapped his shoulder and he turned around to find Sherlock standing behind him, holding a cigarette. "I think you need this".

"Thank you" he said before asking, "How..."

"Greg, I have known you for as long as you have known me. Give me some credit".

The DI smiled. "I thought ordinary people didn't interest you".

"They don't" Sherlock answered, fishing another cigarette and a fire lighter out of his jacket and giving them both fire.

Greg smiled because he couldn't help himself – only Sherlock could voice a compliment in a way that made sure only a few people would understand it – and thankfully took a drag from the cigarette. Afterwards, he asked, "Why – "

"I beat John to it. Told him to get coffee".

"Of course you did" Greg muttered. They stood there smoking, looking into the distance.

"I am aware you are under pressure right now" Sherlock finally said. Greg had to bite back a chuckle. Sherlock, while obviously trying to be what would be classified as a "good friend", still had small problems with social interaction.

"Yes, I am. But if it turns out Dowling is innocent, I will have to live with it anyway".

"I hardly think he could be called "innocent" under any circumstances".

"Maybe not" Greg acquiesced, "but you know what I mean".

Normally, this was the last thing one should say to Sherlock – the consulting detective would proceed to explain how one "obviously didn't use the right words to convey the meaning" – but this time Sherlock was silent.

Once they had finished their cigarettes, Sherlock took a breath and asked, "Ready to investigate the case, Inspector?"

"Yes" Greg answered. "I am". And smiling, he followed his friend.

**Author's note: Hopkins is a mixture of different detectives in the canon – plus something of my imagination thrown in.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: I have to admit that I was very positively surprised at the reactions to the last chapter, because I didn't really know what to think about it. Apparently I managed to make Hopkins an interesting character (an OC in one of my stories who isn't utterly unpleasant? Call the press!) and people liked the rooftop scene too... Either that or I just have wonderful readers. No, not "or". I have wonderful readers. It's the only explanation.**

**And you get more Sherlock POV in this chapter. I realized I had been concentrating on Greg a lot, so... **

**I don't own anything, please review.**

When they got back to the lab, they found an exasperated John quarrelling with Anderson. Normally, despite the fact that the forensic tech had never shown regret over Sherlock's "death" (other than Donavan, who apparently had even visited his grave, according to John), the doctor tried to be civil to him; therefore, Anderson must have done something to annoy him.

When Greg heard what it was, he but his lip to hide a smile, and he could have sworn that even Sherlock's breath hitched a bit as he was trying to keep himself from snorting.

"All I'm asking is that you take this DNA profile and check the databank... maybe the killer is already registered" an obviously exasperated John was explaining to Anderson, most likely for the umpteenth time. The forensic tech was still wearing his trademark sneer, however.

"You don't give me orders" he snapped. "It's bad enough that we have to listen to the freak once again, but – "

"Anderson, run the DNA profile through the database" Greg interrupted; he hadn't been there when John had chinned the Chief Superintendent (and was, to his shame, still sorry for it), but he was ready to bet that John's expression had looked exactly like the one he was wearing now.

Anderson stormed out of the lab and John composed himself. "I brought coffee" he announced and, gesturing towards three cups, he shot Sherlock, who was standing behind the DI, a look and relaxed slightly after receiving some signal from his friend. Greg took the coffee and pretended he hadn't seen anything.

"So, what now?" he asked casually, although he already knew; he was convinced all of them knew. He simply didn't want to be the person to utter the words.

Sherlock, for once, seemed to understand, because he took his coffee and didn't even roll his eyes as he answered, "The keys. There is every possibility that they were placed on the last crime scene twelve years ago to incriminate Dowling." He paused, and for a moment, Greg had the utterly ridiculous (or, maybe, since Sherlock had just followed him to the roof, not so ridiculous) feeling that the consulting detective was giving him time to prepare himself.

"Try to remember: When were the keys found?"

Greg didn't have to think about it long; it was the one thing that had always left him doubtful about the value of the evidence.

"The day after the murders were discovered".

Sherlock looked at him, and the DI knew that his consulting detective was thinking the same thing he was.

As it turned out, John thought the same as well.

"Who found them?" the doctor decided to ask.

Greg sighed. "That's the problem: I don't know. A crime scene tech, I imagine. And before you ask: No, I wasn't working with Anderson at the time."

"Pity" John replied darkly, causing Sherlock to chuckle.

"Who was the leader of the forensic team? Do you remember that?"

Greg frowned, trying to remember the name of the man; he had been a little older than both him and Hopkins and he didn't have the best memories of him. What had been his name again? Something like – like –

Then he remembered, "Timothy Spawling. Could be rather rude, but was a good forensic tech – at least for a while..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and Greg added "He was let go".

"Alcohol". It wasn't a question, and Greg nodded.

Sherlock frowned as he noticed that John's fingers tightened unconsciously around his cup. Harry had finally got sober in the three years he'd been gone, but alcoholism was still a difficult subject for his doctor. They would have to go talk to Timothy Spawling, no doubt, and John would insist on coming with –

He shot Greg a look. Even though he didn't look as desperate as he had on the rooftop, he was far from relaxed. Judging by the way he had talked about the forensic tech – or rather, how he had pronounced "rude" and the fact that he was even now squeezing the bridge of his nose with his right hand, always a sign of stress, told him that they probably shouldn't take his DI with them.

Most likely there had been bad blood between him and Spawling – just as there was between him and Hopkins, Sherlock might not be the best at social interaction, but he wasn't blind – and, if so, the forensic tech would be certain not to tell them a thing, especially if drunk.

Greg was sure not to like this idea, but Sherlock had to try to convince him nonetheless.

Or, rather...

He took a deep breath and began, "Greg, how about you interview the detectives you worked with on the case twelve years ago, and John and I try to find Timothy Spawling?"

Predictably, the DI opened his mouth to protest, but John, who had definitely got better at following Sherlock's thoughts, interrupted him. "True – you would also be able to come over immediately when Molly calls and tells you she has finished the autopsies".

Sherlock almost smirked, but just almost. John had told him about Greg's crush on the pathologist (which definitely corresponded with one on her side) a few months ago and had been surprised that the consulting detective had already known about it. But, really, Greg was far from subtle.

Greg seemed to realize that the two wouldn't let him go and sighed. "Fine. But you keep me posted. And I mean it. You keep me posted this time. Understood?"

"Yes, Inspector" Sherlock replied mockingly, already turning around, and he saw out of the corner of his eye that John saluted Greg on the way out. But at least his DI was smiling, and that was something.

"That was rather manipulative of you, John" Sherlock announced as they left St Bart's and he sent a text to Mycroft asking for Timothy Spawling's address. Normally, he would have found it out himself, but Greg had already looked bad enough on the rooftop; he didn't want to lose more time than necessary.

They caught a cab immediately of course.

"I learned from the best" John replied.

"Thank you".

"I meant Mycroft".

At his brother's name, Sherlock's phone chimed and he looked at the text. "Maddison Road, please" he told the driver.

John frowned. "Never heard of it".

"It's in a rather run-down neighbourhood" Sherlock shrugged.

"So still drinking then" John answered, looking out the window, and Sherlock bit his lip, hesitating. "John..."

"No, no" his friend interrupted, waving a hand and giving him a small smile. "You don't have to, Sherlock. I know you know. That's enough".

Sherlock nodded. He supposed it was.

"How is Greg holding up?" John asked; at least they were able to speak freely now, with the DI safely at Scotland Yard.

"As well as can be expected... He took the cigarette, though".

John sighed. "And here I thought you were the only one with "danger nights"".

"It's not night." Sherlock pointed out.

"Great, so Greg has danger days. Even better".

"He'll be fine" Sherlock said with conviction. The DI had always been fine, no matter what happened, for as long as Sherlock had known him.

"Of course he will. But..." John bit his lip. "Do you think he put the wrong man in jail?"

Sherlock sighed. "I am not sure yet. But it is a possibility."

John nodded and looked out the window once again. Sherlock did the same. They arrived at the home of Timothy Spawling – if you could call a house that looked as if it would fall down any second a home – ten minutes later and got out.

And even Sherlock had to admit that he wouldn't have thought it would be quite as bad, but the man who opened the door was clearly an alcoholic who couldn't even survive ten minutes without a fix and, by the looks of it, didn't have long to live. His eyes were bloodshot and yellow, he stared at them as if he didn't know whether they were real or he was imagining them, and apparently he hadn't eaten for several days. Sherlock could feel John stiffen next to him.

When he introduced them, things, unbelievably, grew worse.

Because Timothy Spawling let them in and, as soon as Sherlock had explained why they were here, became much friendlier; he even asked them if they wanted tea, which they declined.

He grinned. "Abou' time. So you notissd?"

"Noticed what?" John asked, and it came probably out sharper than he intended.

"That Lestrade was' the one who foun' the keys. He mus' have put 'em 'ere. Affer all, he became DI shor'ly afterwards".

And, just like that, the case had just become much more complicated.

**Author's note: Yes, cliffhanger. Yes, shorter chapter. But you know what?  
The filming of series three started! Wuhu!**

**P.S.: Timothy Spawling is supposed to be drunk. I haven't forgotten how to spell certain words.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note: So I tried to be reasonable and not write a cliffhanger... and what happens as soon as I do? I get more followers and more reviews! Sometimes, life is strange... but wonderful.**

**I planned this to be about Sherlock's and Lestrade's relationship, and suddenly it turned all thrillery... Oh, well, I am going to try to write this chapter better. **

**I don't own anything, please review.**

„Mr. Spawling" Sherlock answered, finding it surprisingly difficult to keep his calm, „you are aware that you are accusing DI Lestrade of – "

"Im'prisonin' the wrong man?" Dawling lulled. "You can bet I'm awar' of it. Why doya think I was fired?"

"Because you are an alcoholic?" John threw in, and Sherlock could tell that his blogger had difficulties to keep his temper, predictably enough. While his blogger had a problem with alcoholics for obvious reason, having them tell him that one of his friends had done something illegal was not the best way to start a conversation.

Dawling, however, didn't seem concerned about John's anger, and simply answered, "Tha's right. Haven' been anythin' else for years. But I know wha' I saw, all the same. An' the keys weren' there the day befor', and then he call' me. Tol' me we had overlook'd the evidence. But we didn'. I have proof".

And he sauntered away, his speed belying his age and condition. As they heard him stumble up the stairs, John asked, "You don't believe him, surely?"

"No" Sherlock answered, "of course not. But – "

"We need to investigate, I know" John sighed, and Sherlock realized once again that he should have reacted differently – that was to say, more human – in a situation.

"That doesn't mean I don't trust Greg" he tried because it was true. He trusted his DI, but nonetheless, he had to entertain all possibilities. This was just how he worked; how he thought. Not many people understood it.

Thankfully John did.

The doctor took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock. "Of course you do. I'm sorry, I – "

"There's no need" Sherlock answered, and there wasn't. He knew about Harry; he knew how John responded to addiction, just like John knew how he worked on cases. They understood one another, and that was that.

John gave him a grateful smile, and neither of them said anything else until they heard Dawling come down the stairs.

He grinned triumphantly as he handed Sherlock a – folder?

"Did you steal police files?" the consulting detective asked, baffled; surely not even Dawling would fail to realize that it was not a good idea to show them stolen property?

"No, I didn'. I made copies. An' Lestrade didn' seem to wan' anyone to look to closely anyway".

Ignoring the obvious implications of that statement, Sherlock flipped the folder open and saw immediately what Timothy Spawling must have meant. The former forensic tech pointed it out anyway.

"See? That's fro' the day they foun' the bodies... and that's a day later".

Sherlock saw what the man wanted to show him; two pictures, obviously of the same piece of the carpet at the third crime scene... On the first, it was empty. The second picture showed the keys.

Dawling grinned once again. "See? On' the secon' day he call' me and say we overlook' something'... so I came an' he show me the keys. Don' tell me that's just coincidence".

"Even if I should believe you" Sherlock said, "which I don't – why didn't you report it?"

"Becaus' I was fired after the case" he answered. "Didn't take a genius to figure out who was behin' it".

Sherlock looked at John, who was apparently struggling to keep his composure – both because of his friend and his sister – and decided it was time to bring this interview to an end.

"May I keep these?" he asked, already putting the file into his coat.

Dawling nodded before answering happily, "Jus' make sure he fries".

When the door closed behind them, both Sherlock and John sighed with relief.

"What now?" the doctor inquired, looking at his friend, who was absent-mindedly patting the pocket he had put the file in.

Sherlock, uncharacteristically, shrugged and answered, "I don't know. Let's return to St. Bart's and wait for further developments."

John, translating this to "I need time to think about what just happened", agreed and they caught a cab.

As soon as they had arrived at the hospital – John had kept quiet during the night, knowing that Sherlock was most likely categorizing all the information they had got – they came across Mike Stamford, who was obviously going to get his third coffee of the day.

"John, why don't you accompany Mike?" Sherlock suggested. "I am going to look for Greg in the meantime".

John shot him an inquisitive look before sighing internally. He should have known. Of course Sherlock would want to speak to Greg alone at first; the Di had been the first to allow Sherlock on crime scenes, the first to believe in him, the first to watch over him on danger nights, the first – the first friend Sherlock had ever had (not counting Mrs. Hudson, but John could reasonably argue that she was more of a motherly influence).

It only made sense that Sherlock would want to talk to the DI without witnesses. And yet, John was worried. The consulting detective obviously didn't know what to think – not because he didn't trust Greg, but because Spawling had given them a lead that needed to be followed – and the doctor didn't want the friendship between him and Greg to be hurt in the process. Although the DI knew Sherlock and would probably be able to see why he even asked him.

In the end, he could only agree.

So John nodded and followed Mike, who, as was his custom, naturally knew all about what was happening. Especially since he was rather friendly with Molly, and the pathologist always felt better after getting things off of her chest – which was why keeping Sherlock's trick a secret had been such a burden to her in the first place.

That said, the teacher never talked about the things he heard with other people than the ones he knew would be touched by it.

Also, knowing John, he didn't spend too long trying to find a way to bring the subject up; he simply asked, "Is Sherlock alright?"

To which John replied "He will be", although without much conviction.

Sherlock entered Scotland Yard with a feeling a foreboding. Greg would discredit Spawling's accusation, without a doubt; and yet – the consulting detective knew that most people wouldn't understand his need to follow up this lead, would mistake it as mistrust. This wasn't true, however. He trusted the DI; trusted Greg. And he was quite sure he would understand him, would comprehend why he had to ask the question.

Sherlock had never suppressed a question, or a piece of evidence. He had to solve the case – it was in his very blood – and, once he had started, he couldn't let go. He suspected that it was the same for Greg, in a way, that it was this strange kinship that had made the DI trust him in the first place.

As he made his way to Greg's office, he couldn't help but notice that the whole Yard was already buzzing with rumours. Naturally – the DI's questions couldn't have gone unnoticed.

He walked to the office without paying attention to anyone – which was a good idea, since they definitely paid too much attention to him – and entered without knocking.

Greg looked up, rather defeated.

"And, did you find out something? Because I have been hitting dead ends... No one remembers who found the keys, and –"

"Greg" Sherlock interrupted, eager to get this over with. "Spawling claims you showed him the keys. He thinks you were the one to put them there."

The DI looked at Sherlock for a second before he answered, "I told you. I can't remember who found them. It might have been me who found them."

"And?" Sherlock prompted.

Only to realize he had once again said the wrong thing.

Greg suddenly looked rather angry and demanded, "Do you really think I would do something like that, Sherlock?"

"No" the consulting detective answered, feeling rather lost and wishing he had taken John with him, "of course not".

But it sounded weak even to his ears.

"So you... so you come into my office and accuse me of – " the DI started pacing up and down, rubbing a hand over his face.

"I wasn't accusing you, I was merely asking – " Sherlock tried to reason with him.

"As if the question itself wasn't an accusation." Sherlock was silent. Greg added, "So you believe me capable of sending an innocent man to jail for a promotion – "

"I never said that".

"Of course you didn't, freak". Greg hadn't meant to say it; it had simply slipped out. Worse than that, it had sounded like – he had pronounced it like a Sergeant they both knew rather well, and –

Sherlock didn't react, or at least, he didn't betray any emotion. He simply turned around and left the office, the DI staring after him, unable to do anything.

**Author's note: I know, I know, but somehow, I felt like this would be the appropriate reactions. Sherlock trying to solve the case, and Greg, while understanding why, still being hurt he even considered the possibility. Or maybe I'm just crazy.**

**Alas, my friends, no time. Therefore, later and shorter update. **

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note: Time to deal with the last chapter... I didn't traumatize all of you, did I?**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

Greg stared after Sherlock, horrified and furious at himself. Had he really just –?

Yes, he had, and what made things even worse what that he hadn't stopped to consider Sherlock's point of view, hadn't looked at Sherlock's question the way the consulting detective deserved; in short, he had acted like so many other people who had told Sherlock to "piss off" in the past, and not like the policeman who had met the younger man all those years ago, the policeman the young man had grown to trust.

And there was every reason to suppose that he had just destroyed this trust beyond repair.

He hadn't even been aware that the word "freak" had slipped out, at least not at the moment; and, furthermore, he had never thought, and still didn't think of Sherlock, as such. But somehow – maybe because he was used to people angry with the consulting detective call him exactly that – he had automatically –

He felt nauseous just thinking about it. He had stopped down to Donavan's level, simply because he had not liked what Sherlock was implying.

And, to be honest, Sherlock's question had simply been logical. He had to get the Dawling's accusation out of the way. Simply the fact that he had chosen to ask Greg – and apparently believe him, otherwise he wouldn't have come to his office at all – and therefore to be convinced after a single word from the DI proved that he trusted Greg.

And Greg had just thrown that trust right back in his face, just because he'd been a selfish git and annoyed because the interviews with the people who'd worked with him on the Couple murderer case hadn't told him anything.

By the time he had thought of all this and thrown open his office door, Sherlock was nowhere in sight and everyone on the floor was pointedly looking at anything but him, proving that the consulting detective must indeed have left in a state of serious agitation, if everyone had noticed. He slammed the door shut, not caring about the noise, and sat back down, burying his face in his hands.

Sherlock didn't pay attention where he was going – John would undoubtedly have called it "a miracle" – he simply had to get out. He had to get away from –

He would never have predicted that one day he would flee (not, not flee; he wasn't a child. He was simply... vacating the premises) from Lestrade, of all people. Once again, he remembered the advice Mycroft had given him on a case long ago: "Caring is not an advantage".

Obviously. He cared about the DI, and only because of this fact he had talked – or rather tried to talk to him – before collecting more evidence. It had been a mistake; he should have acted like it was just another case –

Only he couldn't. Not even now. Lestrade was – Lestrade was a friend, and no matter that he had called him a freak, Sherlock couldn't let him down.

Just as he had come to this conclusion, he bumped into someone as he was leaving Scotland Yard. He recognizes the person immediately.

And he had though the situation was difficult enough as it was.

Donavan had to show up. But, coming to think of it, why not? She was probably on her way to Lestrade. And at least they would finally find something to agree on. She was the first – well, not the first person to ever call him a freak, but the first detective from Scotland Yard to do so. She would certainly be glad to hear that her boss finally agreed with her.

Or – and this thought would have given Sherlock a stab in the heart, if he had allowed such a silly unscientific expression to express his emotional state – had he always believed him to be a freak, and simply been too polite to say so?

He became aware that Donavan was still standing in front of him, instead of sweeping past him (and probably insulting him, if she had the time). In fact, the Sergeant was looking at him in a way she had never looked at him before. He, for once, couldn't tell what she was thinking, and this was certainly disquieting.

"Fr – Sherlock, are you alright?" she asked, and he couldn't help but stare at her. Had Sally Donavan really just asked if he was alright? And was this concern in her voice?

He shook himself. "Of course, Donavan". He tried to walk away, only to have her block his path.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Why would you care?" he spat, and she seemed taken aback by the venom in his voice. He didn't care; she might have tried to treat him more politely ever since he had returned, because she felt bad about convincing Lestrade to go to the Chief Superintendent apparently, but it didn't make a difference. He would always be the freak to her, so why bother. Although, if even Donavan could tell that something had happened, he certainly needed to compose himself.

"Should I call Doctor Watson?" she asked, and he realized that she was not only trying to be polite, but to be nice. Wonders would never cease.

He quickly composed his face into the blank mask she was used to and answered in a flat voice, "No. He's at St. Bart's. I'm on my way there".

She nodded, and he was certain she would step out of his way any moment, when Anderson happened to walk up behind her. If Sherlock would have been prone to cursing, he would have done it then.

"Sally" he sounded rather surprised to see her talking to Sherlock and the consulting detective was forced to agree with him for the first time, "What are you doing with the freak?"

Anderson hadn't changed after his return, and Sherlock hadn't expected it. Still, he would have preferred not to hear the word again so shortly after Greg had thrown it at him. Despite his best efforts to hide his flinch, he was sure Donavan had seen it.

The next words to come out of her mouth were, unsurprisingly enough, "Piss Off", and Sherlock, still rather shaken from the fight (argument? discussion?) he'd had with Lestrade was prepared to shrug and walk away when he saw the look on Anderson's face and realized that Sergeant Donavan had just told her ex-lover (they had split while he had been "dead", it was painfully obvious) to piss off because he was – insulting Sherlock?

Anderson was as shocked as he was but didn't manage to hide it as well as the consulting detective; he was still standing next to Donavan and staring at her like she'd lost her mind when she shot him an angry looked and asked, "Well?"

Not even Anderson could miss the threatening tone in her voice, and he disappeared.

Sherlock looked at the Sergeant, who appeared to be rather surprised too that she had taken his side, and said, because there was nothing else to say, "Thank you, Sally".

She seemed taken aback for a moment, then she replied you're welcome. She looked at the floor and cleared her throat before looking back up at him. "I am going to – look through some files – won't keep you from going to Bart's any longer".

Sherlock nodded and smiled at her – he couldn't deny that he somehow felt better than he had a few minutes ago – and she gave him a small smile in return. Then she walked towards the elevators and he started to walk to St Bart's, using the few minutes he had to compose himself. If even Donavan had noticed that something had happened, he didn't want to know what John would think.

He had just arrived in front of the hospital when he got a text.

_Molly finished the autopsies. She's waiting for us in the morgue.  
J_

At least there was some good news, and he would be able to occupy his mind with something different than the – unpleasant scene with Lestrade.

John was already there when he entered the morgue and nodded a greeting at Molly, and, despite his efforts to appear as calm as ever, the doctor realized immediately that something must have happened. It wasn't a surprise, to be honest – ever since he returned, John had not only kept a close eye on him than ever (almost as if afraid he might disappear again) but made sure to be informed of all developments in cases. He had also got much better at reading the consulting detectives, which was rather practical most of the time, but also sometimes annoying – like now.

He didn't want John to know what Lestrade had called him; he didn't want anyone to know. John and the DI were friends, and he didn't to ruin that – no matter that Lestrade had obviously never really cared about him. He was used to it anyway.

"What happened?" his blogger demanded, strolling over to Sherlock and looking him in the face, searching for signs.

Sherlock quickly made his face blank – which seemed to scare John even more – and answered, shrugging, "Nothing. I'm simply frustrated because we haven't made any progress yet – Lestrade hasn't found out anything."

It was the wrong thing to say, he realized immediately, and cursed the sentiment that had prompted him to distance himself from the DI and call him by his last name again – ever since he returned, Lestrade had been "Greg" to him. And John was bound to notice.

He had.

"Molly, would you please leave us alone for a minute?" he asked politely, turning to the pathologist, who was in fact already on her way to the door, shooting Sherlock concerned looks. She nodded and left.

As soon as the door closed behind her, John asked, "Sherlock, what happened? Don't say "nothing", I can see something is bothering you".

Sherlock swallowed and realized that he couldn't lie to John. Not after everything they had been through.

"I told Lestrade about Spwaling", and he paused for a moment and took a deep breath to prepare himself, "and he became angry."

"How angry?" John wanted to know. He should have known that his doctor would know which question to ask. It made things easier.

"He... he didn't understand that I could "accuse" him of something like that. His words, not mine" Sherlock hastened to add when he saw the dangerous flash in John's eyes. If this made him angry, what would the truth do?

The doctor frowned, his eyes searching his face for clues once again. "What else?" he asked. "You would hardly look like that if – "

"He called me a freak" Sherlock interrupted him, wanting to get it over with as soon as possible.

Almost immediately, John's face became very red, and his eyes darkened. "No. He. Didn't."

"Yes, he did" Sherlock answered, all of a sudden afraid for the DI, despite everything. "But I am sure – "

"Will you be fine here? Talking to Molly about the autopsies?" John inquired, still looking angrier than Sherlock had ever seen him (even when he had returned, the doctor hadn't been this upset).

"Y – Yes" Sherlock stammered, rather taken aback. "I guess so. But what – " He didn't understand, at least not at once, why John was asking him this. Normally, the doctor stayed with his friends after they'd had a "hard time" as he called it. So why would he –

He got his answer as John interrupted him to shout, "Molly!"

The pathologist entered the morgue – apparently she had just been waiting in the corridor – and John turned to Sherlock, squeezing his hand and saying, "I'll be back soon, don't worry" before walking past Molly and through the door, and Sherlock understood that the doctor was going to Lestrade, but that he could do nothing about it – John could be quite stubborn.

He only hoped the DI would still be able to walk after the confrontation.

**Author's note: Protective John – I love protective John.**

**What sorcery is this? A longer chapter?**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: Time for protective John and apologetic Greg.**

**I don't own anything.**

John all but ran out of St. Bart's, fuming. How could Greg... Why would he even... He couldn't...

He stopped and took a deep breath to calm himself. Greg was under a lot of stress right now. And yet –

Most people were convinced that Sherlock Holmes didn't pay attention to the insults people hurled at him – even now that he was famous and rehabilitated. But most people didn't know Sherlock Holmes like John did, like Mrs. Hudson did, like Mycroft did, like Molly did...

Like the doctor had been sure Greg did.

Sherlock Holmes was not a sociopath; Sherlock Holmes had a heart. Sherlock Holmes had faked his own suicide and spent three lonely years dismantling Moriarty's web because of that simple fact. He was human.

And John would lie if he said that he hadn't always suspected that Sherlock hated the word "freak". He might have built up a wall – and yet, whenever the word was hurled at him, there would be certain look in the consulting detective's eyes, just for a second, that would tell John that he didn't really just shrug it off and go on with his life.

Every time the word was uttered Sherlock felt a tiny stab – he might never have admitted it to John, but the doctor knew it, knew him – and now someone he had trusted, someone he had called a friend, someone he had faked his suicide for had called him a freak.

John realized that he was getting angrier instead of calmer, and he wouldn't be able to do anything against it, until he had spoken to Greg.

Although there was a small part of him that would have preferred to punch Greg in the face.

So he simply walked (he forced himself not to run) to Scotland Yard, noticing the looks people gave him on the way but not caring. Once he'd entered the building, even the detectives ignored him, which told him that Sherlock had left in a state of considerable agitation – otherwise they wouldn't have noticed, and some would have asked him what he was doing here.

He half expected Donavan to block his way – he could see her sitting at her desk on Greg's floor – but she, apparently deliberately, didn't look in his direction and concentrated on whatever file she was reading.

He didn't knock. He simply threw the door open and strolled in. Greg didn't look surprised; in fact, he seemed to have suspected something like this to happen, and John would probably have been sorry for him – he looked sad, and lost, and tired – if the DI hadn't hurt Sherlock. No one was allowed to hurt his best friend.

The DI looked up and knew immediately that John was furious, as he should be. His whole posture, even his face told Greg that he was not dealing with the doctor he had come to know over the past few years, but with Captain Watson.

Greg tried to smile, but only succeeded to make a grimace. He looked at his desk and said, "I know why you are here".

"You better do". John didn't bother to hide the venom in his voice. Greg knew what he had done – he had known Sherlock for a long time, after all – and he would also be aware that John wouldn't be in the best mood right now.

Greg stood up and walked over to the window, his back to John. Looking out, he finally said, "I didn't mean to".

"That's the problem, isn't it? They never do" John replied, perhaps more bitterly than he intended.

Greg flinched and turned around. "I just didn't expect him to think me capable of putting an innocent man in jail simply to become a DI".

"He doesn't think like that. He doesn't feel like that, either, Greg, and you know it".

Greg couldn't hold John's gaze; he kept looking at the floor, his desk, anywhere but at the doctor. "Yes. I do. But – "

"There is no "but" Greg, not when you are friends with Sherlock Holmes. You trust him, you believe in him, he becomes a part of your life, and there is never a "but". He is simply there, and you accept it, because it's the only thing you can do. Because he is something you never expected, but you need nonetheless". John stopped his rant and rubbed his face with his right hand. To be honest, he didn't even know what he wanted to accomplish; on the one hand, Greg had been a friend to Sherlock – maybe the first friend Sherlock had ever had – he had looked after the consulting detective on danger nights, he had been responsible for making Sherlock quit the drugs. On the other hand –

He had just called Sherlock a freak, after everything the consulting detective had done for him, had not even stopped to consider Sherlock's feelings –

"If it helps, I hate myself right now" Greg finally answered, "And I know that everything you said is true – God knows, my life would have been utterly unremarkable if not for him".

"And yet – " John couldn't help but reply, "You – "

"I know what I did" Greg interrupted him, "And I know he will probably never look at me the same way again, but – I am sorry. I got carried away, I didn't think, I know it's not enough, I know it will never be enough, but – "

He stopped, realized he had used the word "but" yet again, sighed, and ran his hands through his hair, and John while still wanting t punch him, was at least ready to admit that he looked sorry for what he'd done.

Greg apparently read his thoughts, because he asked, "Will you punch me now?"

"Thinking about it" John answered honestly.

Greg almost smiled, then thought better of it and replied, "If it makes you feel better..."

John couldn't help but snort. "Don't expect me to hit you in front of half the detectives at Scotland Yard". After a moment, he added, "And that doesn't mean I'm not still mad at you".

"I wouldn't have expected anything different. I'm still mad at myself. But – " Greg looked at John hesitantly "do you think he would let me apologize?"

John shrugged. "He's in the morgue with Molly. Since you work on the case you should hear about the autopsies anyway".

It wasn't a yes, but it was the best the DI was going to hear, so he said nothing and simply left the Yard with John, ignoring Sally's concerned glance.

They were silent while they walked to the hospital, and Greg was sure that anyone would notice the wall between them; in fact, he was surprised that Mycroft hadn't kidnapped him yet. This was, however, most likely due to the fact that Sherlock had been at St. Bart's and safe – John certainly hadn't left him alone.

As if he could read Greg's thoughts, John said "Molly's with him. He's fine".

"Really?" Greg asked, unconvinced, and at least the bitterness in his voice (he still couldn't believe what he'd said) seemed to calm John a bit. The doctor looked at him for the first time since they had left the Yard.

"He has the bodies to occupy his mind – for now" he replied. He seemed to think about something before announcing, "I am going to take Molly for a coffee" – and Greg wondered if he had deliberately said it in a way that was sure to displease him, not that he didn't deserve it – "And in the meantime you can apologize. Sherlock will feel more comfortable if there are no witnesses."

He shot Greg another glare. "That doesn't mean I won't be nearby, though".

Greg swallowed, finally understanding why Mycroft had trusted the doctor to take care of his brother as soon as he had seen him.

He nodded and replied, "I wouldn't have expected anything else".

They didn't say anything else until they arrived in front of the morgue. John opened the door and looked in. Sherlock was busy measuring the wounds for himself – it wasn't that he didn't trust Molly, he simply liked to see all the evidence for himself – and John was relieved. At least the consulting detective could still concentrate, and he didn't look as lost as he had when he'd entered the morgue. John gave Greg a sign to stay exactly where he was and entered.

Sherlock looked up and asked, "And, did you speak to Lestrade?"

"Yes".

"Did anything turn up?"

If John hadn't known the consulting detective so well, he would probably have wondered how Sherlock could already have forgotten; but he lived with him and he knew he hadn't.

"No. But, as a matter of fact, Greg is standing outside the morgue as we speak..." He noticed Sherlock's shoulders tense slightly.

"I will be having coffee with Molly. I won't be far. But, please Sherlock, at least let him apologize. I know what he did – I am angry at him myself, believe me – but he is your friend."

Sherlock shrugged and said, "Let him in, then. I just hope it won't take too long".

John nodded, knowing this would be the best reaction he was going to get, before walking to the door, Molly already behind him. He did, however, give Greg another parting glare, just to be on the safe side.

Greg entered and looked down at the floor. How could he apologize? What could he say?

Sherlock, still busy with the body, broke the silence. "Have you found something out, Lestrade?"

Greg flinched. Sherlock hadn't called him by his last name ever since he returned. He knew he deserved it, but still, it felt wrong.

He took a deep breath. "I wanted to apologize".

"No need to apologize for speaking your mind" Sherlock answered briefly.

"Sherlock – I don't think you a freak. It just slipped out".

The consulting detective looked up. His eyes narrowed, then his face was once again devoid of emotion. "If you say so..." And he started measuring the wounds again.

"Sherlock..." Greg walked towards him and came to stand at the other side of the body. "Please. You know I consider you one of my best friends. You know I need you".

"To solve the case, yes, I am aware of it".

"Sherlock!" Greg grabbed the consulting detective's wrist. If Sherlock wanted to hear his apology over a corpse, so be it. Sherlock's eyes flashed dangerously as he looked up.

"Sherlock..." the DI repeated, letting go of his wrist. "I need you because you are crazy and turned my life upside down nine years ago. I need you because I was incredibly bored in the three years you were gone. I need you because – I need you because I trust you, and I care about you. I will always be sorry for what I said, but – please..." He broke off, unsure what to do. Then he noticed Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock was deducing him once again, at least, and he would take what he could get.

"You are not lying" he finally announced, sounding surprised.

"No, no I am not" Greg replied.

Sherlock nodded and gave him a small smile. "Greg, call John. I need to show him the wounds."

"Of course". And Greg turned around and took his phone out, incredibly relieved. Things weren't all fine between them, not yet, but it was a start.

**Author's note: Because don't we all love big scenes over bodies?**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note: I looked over this story and realized it had taken a whole different direction than I originally planned... Here I am, writing a simple story, and suddenly it turns into a thriller with lots of bromance angst. I swear my writing isn't evolving but mutating. Especially when I compare to how I write now to how I wrote when I started – and I've only been writing fanfiction for a few months!**

**Okay, enough about my crisis of faith. We finally get to find out something new about the case (yes, I know, I remembered there was a case).**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

Sherlock hadn't known what to expect when John had all but stormed out the morgue; he knew, of course, that the doctor would run immediately to Scotland Yard and give the DI a piece of his mind, but since human behaviour, as far as sentiment was concerned, was usually difficult to predict, he was unable to say how he would react. He only hoped John wouldn't punch him; having his doctor arrested would, despite the fact that Mycroft would instantly get him out, be utterly inconvenient.

Molly seemed to sense that something was going on, but let him measure the wounds on the corpses without saying a word or trying to make small talk. He felt thankful; the pathologist, although shy and sometimes too worried about what others might think of her, was one of the few people who almost always understood what he needed, which was one of the reasons he had asked her to help him almost four years ago.

He was slightly surprised when John returned with Lestrade in tow, and he certainly didn't think the DI would look so desperate while apologizing, and not desperate because he wanted the case solved, but because he wanted Sherlock to forgive him.

He hadn't, not yet, but it was a start.

John, while telling Sherlock and Greg that he was taking Molly for a coffee, had realized that he couldn't leave the corridor as soon as the door of the morgue closed behind them. He had only seen Sherlock this vulnerable a few times before – for example when he had told the consulting detective to leave and his best friend had been convinced he never wanted to see him again, which had led to John chasing after him to Greg's flat – and he didn't like it.

Molly sensed his renitence and simply said, "We could stay here, you know". He smiled at her gratefully before realizing that all of this must seem rather odd to her. He cleared his throat.

"Did Sherlock tell you what happened?"

"No. He was unnaturally quiet" she answered, "and I didn't want to pry. He seemed – he looked so lost, so I showed him the bodies, and it was enough to distract him."

"Thank you, Molly" John replied, despite everything rather relieved that the pathologist didn't know why Sherlock had been upset. He might not have forgiven Greg yet (he shoved away the thought that he really had nothing to forgive, only Sherlock had that privilege, but he was his blogger and best friend, after all) but he and Molly certainly liked each other, and they deserved happiness. Even though Molly would probably learn what had happened anyway, John didn't want to be the one to tell her. It wasn't his story to tell anyway. If Sherlock wanted people to know then they would.

They made small talk – Molly had got another kitten a few weeks ago, and her older cat had happily adopted it – since the pathologist apparently felt that he needed a break from everything, until Greg opened the door and stepped out, his phone in hand, apparently ready to call them. He didn't seem surprised when he found them in the corridor, though.

"Sherlock wants you to take a look at the stab wounds."

"Again?" John asked.

Greg shrugged. "Something to do with the depth and the angle, I think".

John nodded and entered the morgue and Molly smiled at Greg. "Everything alright between you and Sherlock?" she asked hesitantly.

Greg answered her smile with one of his own. "Not yet, but we are getting there".

She nodded. "The offer still stands. If you want to – to talk, you know..." she blushed and he smiled again before they entered the morgue too.

John was looking over the stab wounds, Sherlock patiently (rather uncharacteristically, but then again, he hardly disturbed John when the doctor was busy with a murder victim) waiting beside him.

Finally, the doctor looked up and nodded. Sherlock sighed.

"What is it?" Greg asked.

"The killer used a bayonet" the consulting detective explained. "And – there is one wound on the breast bone of the woman – Molly pointed it out to me" the pathologist blushed once again "that doesn't seem to correspond with the others."

"And that means..." Greg prompted when Sherlock didn't say anything else.

It was John who answered, automatically finishing Sherlock's sentence.

"There were most likely two weapons involved".

"Two..." Greg swallowed when he realized what that could entail. "Do you mean – there could be two killers?"

Sherlock sighed. "Not enough data. There were no traces in the house, and at least I can tell you that all wounds were inflicted by a right-handed person".

"Good. So, no problem at all, then. We just have to look for a right-handed – "

"Male" Sherlock interrupted. "The DNA-profile tells us that".

"So a right-handed man in London. Great". Realizing that he had once again acted out his frustration on Sherlock, the DI looked at the floor and sighed. "I didn't mean – "

"I know you didn't" the consulting detective answered, and Greg realized that Sherlock didn't hold his frustration against him because he was all too familiar with the feeling of being stuck on a case.

"Molly" John suddenly said, "did you happen to take a look at the autopsy reports from the other victims?"

"Just a glance, really. I wanted to start with the autopsies as soon as possible, and – "

"John, you are truly a conductor of light" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, and started to explain before he realized he had been rude to Molly (which he had been trying to avoid ever since he came back, since she had helped him and lied about it for three long years). "I'm sorr-"

"It's alright, Sherlock, I know you" she replied mildly and he explained to Greg, "I really should have noticed it sooner, I already looked through the files and – "

"No worries" the DI answered, feeling guilty because he very well realized why Sherlock hadn't immediately the connection between the bodies and whatever he had just remembered; he certainly would need to apologize a few more times before he would be ready to forgive himself, let alone hope that the consulting detective could forget what had happened between them.

Sherlock stopped himself and recommenced his sentence. "The weapon used in the other cases wasn't a bayonet. It was shorter and – "

"Shit!" Greg exclaimed, walking over to the body and looking at the wound. "You are sure?"

"I will have to compare this wound to the pictures of the other autopsies" Sherlock answered.

"I'll get them" Molly said and, before anyone could reply, she opened the door and shuffled out, and Greg was suddenly very aware that the three were alone again.

"So..." John finally asked, determined to know whether Greg had really apologized, and more importantly, how Sherlock felt about it.

Predictably enough, the consulting detective, now that he had had time to compose himself, brushed his concern off.

"Greg explained to me why the word "slipped out", as he called it, and apologized. It's alright".

John nodded, although the look he shot Greg clearly warned him not to let anything similar "slip out" ever again.

They left it at that, because the doctor and the DI knew the consulting detective well enough to realize when he wouldn't tolerate to being pressed about a topic.

Molly returned a few minutes later with the files. Sherlock immediately grabbed them and spread them out on a table, looking over the pictures and reading the measurements of the wounds before comparing them to the one on the latest victim.

When he looked up, he didn't need to say anything. They all understood.

"It is impossible to say with certainty as long as we don't have the murder weapon" Sherlock announced, "however – "

"You think it was the same knife". It wasn't a question. Greg swallowed when Sherlock nodded, trying to come to terms with the fact that he had brought an innocent man into jail. Before, it had been a possibility; now, despite Sherlock's insistence that they couldn't be sure, he was almost certain. And he suspected the "almost" was simply a last hope he was desperately clinging to.

"At least it gives us an answer – now we just have to find the killer". No one in the room, not even Molly, reacted to Sherlock's obvious glee at having found out that an innocent man had spent twelve years of his life in prison; there was no reason to. They had known him long enough.

"And, of course..." Sherlock got once again lost in his head until John prompted him, "Yes?"

Sherlock's eyes glittered. "We need to find out who would frame Dowling, and why. Because there just might be a possibility that the one who did it was the murderer, or wanted to protect him."

"Easier said than done" Greg replied. "Dowling had no friends, and he wasn't exactly the nicest person around, but no one knew we suspected him".

"No one outside the police force you mean" Sherlock answered.

Greg nodded, but chose to say nothing. He had done enough damage already by talking without thinking about it first.

It was John who decided to question the DI, probably because he was thinking exactly the same thing.

"Greg, was anyone very anxious to catch the murderer?" Both Sherlock and Greg shot him strange looks, and the doctor sighed. "You know what I mean. Had anyone focused on Dawling as the prime suspect a little bit too early? Wouldn't let go? Was adamant it had to be him?"

"I have been wondering the same, John" Greg answered, looking down at the floor. "But I don't think so. None of the detectives who worked with me on the case could remember anyone sticking out either..."

"Explainable if they framed Dowling themselves" Sherlock interrupted. "Did you interview all of them?"

"Well..." Greg admitted, feeling sheepish. He had just been about to call Hopkins, the one colleague whose interview he had put up until the last, when Sherlock had come in.

Naturally the consulting detective knew instantly what he had been thinking.

"Hopkins".

"What is it between you two anyway?" John demanded.

Greg heard Molly politely excusing herself and leaving the morgue, probably believing that he wouldn't want her to hear what he had to say (no wonder his marriage hadn't lasted – he had never been good with women and wasn't getting any better, apparently). After the door had closed behind her, he looked from Sherlock to John and finally set down on a chair next to Molly's desk. He sighed.

"I can't really explain it. We just – we didn't really get on. He was too – too cold for my liking..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and Greg shook his head. "Sherlock, I know you. You may act coldly towards others, but that doesn't mean you really don't care".

The consulting detective seemed taken aback and John gave Greg a small smile.

"Hopkins, though... there was just something – lacking. I don't know, maybe we were simply not compatible. There are certain persons you just don't get on with."

John nodded. It was Sherlock who asked the next question.

"Anything else about Hopkins?"

"A little bit too ambitious, perhaps – " Greg saw Sherlock's face. "You can't be serious".

"If he is "too ambitious", as you put it, and felt that a capture would get him a promotion..."

"Many police officers are too ambitious" Greg replied.

"Alright then – let's ask him". And Sherlock swept out of the morgue, John right behind him, as usual. Greg followed them because there was nothing else to do, and because, despite his doubts, and maybe they would finally get some others.

**Author's note: Don't worry, they are finally back to investigating.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's note: I write a fanfiction and people are actually wondering about the case... who did it and why and how and who framed Dowling and... Do I have to tell you how awesome that is?**

**This chapter will be shorter, I'm afraid. But we get a development – or at least something like it.**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

They quickly make their way to Scotland Yard, Greg quickly remembering where Hopkins office is, simply because he had made a point of avoiding a meeting for as long as he could – which probably explained why Sherlock had never met the other DI. This shouldn't have made Greg proud – after all, as far as he knew, Hopkins had always done a good job, and there was no obvious reason not to like him, while for example Sherlock had helped out both Dimmock and Gregson, who had had nothing but Greg's words to back them up – but it did.

He was the one DI who had believed in Sherlock Holmes and asked him to help solving crimes; so maybe Sherlock would decide to forgive him. He wasn't sure what the consulting detective was thinking – to be honest, he never had been – and he was certain that John wouldn't tell him.

Hopkins was in his office, and if the rumours were true, he hardly was anywhere else; the DI preferred to send his Sergeants to crime scenes and simply read the files, an approach Greg had never understood but nonetheless respected.

He wasn't happy to see Greg, but then, he never had been. He seemed to be even angrier once he saw Sherlock and John – again, this was no surprise, he had never liked the idea of an "outsider" helping the police. And yet Greg found that ever since Sherlock had uttered his suspicion he liked Hopkins even less than before.

"Have you finally decided to let me know what's going on?" Hopkins demanded, standing up. "Or are you going to accuse me of a crime? As far as I can tell, this seems to be your pet's preferred method".

Greg ignored the stab at Sherlock – although it was difficult – and decided to ask the question himself, before the consulting detective could get a chance to make the other DI angry.

"It looks like Dowling was innocent after all".

Hopkins almost looked pleased, and Greg found himself wishing that he had let Sherlock speak first after all.

"Too bad. You'll have to let him out then".

Greg took a deep breath to calm himself before answering, "Stop it, Hopkins. We both know you were just as responsible for his arrest as I was."

"I didn't get the promotion though. Guess who will have to take the blame?"

"Whoever framed an innocent man, I imagine" Sherlock interrupted. Hopkins glared at him.

"Good luck with that. It could have been anyone".

"Not anyone knew about your suspect". Sherlock was unmoved by Hopkins' hostility.

"So it must have been me. Obviously. And this has nothing to do with the fact that your friend" he waved a hand towards Greg "has never liked me? Come on, even an amateur like you must be aware that this is hardly – "

"What about Timothy Dowling?" John asked, apparently having decided that this discussion would lead to nothing (and most likely being right). "What about the fact that he spent twelve years in prison for a crime he didn't commit? What about that?"

Hopkins seemed taken aback for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and replied, "You don't know for sure he is innocent".

Greg realized (with inappropriate glee) that he had said "you" instead of "we" – apparently his insistence to be part of the case had disappeared the moment he realized why they were here.

A second later, however, the other DI gained the upper hand.

"Ever asked Spawling who found the keys? He was the leading forensic tech on the case, after all".

Sherlock stared at Hopkins, who visibly flinched under his gaze – getting deduced by Sherlock Holmes took some getting used to – but still seemed unconcerned about Dowling, and Greg realized, not for the first time, the difference between them. Sherlock was impolite to most people (although he tried to be nicer ever since he had returned), he insulted witnesses, he lied and broke into buildings to get evidence. Hopkins did none of that – he was nice, he was charming, he was polite – but for one simple reason: he didn't really care about anyone or anything but himself. Sherlock Holmes needed to solve cases because it was in his blood; he needed to save people because he had to, because he couldn't let them die – faking his suicide to save his friends certainly proved that. Hopkins was happy as long as he got what he wanted.

And people called Sherlock Holmes selfish.

The consulting detective finally answered. "Yes. And we both know what he said, don't we".

Greg was by now so used to Sherlock lying to witnesses (or, in the case, he supposed he could call it a bluff) that he didn't even bait an eyelid. Neither did John.

Hopkins, however, looked smug and shot Greg a triumphant look. "Well, then – "

It only took him a moment to realize his mistake – his confidence had got the better of him. He shouldn't have been sure that Spawling would name Greg as the one who had pointed out the keys. Not unless –

"So there was an understanding between you and Spawling who to blame, should it ever come out that Dowling was framed?" Sherlock asked matter-of-factly. "I assume you came up with this brilliant plan after you didn't get the promotion? What did Spawling get out of it, may I ask?"

Greg remembered something and answered. "Hopkins opposed to Spawling being let go for as long as he could. Because of this, we had to live another year with a forensic tech who either turned up drunk or not at all."

He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands before looking at Hopkins. "Damn. Hopkins, you were a good officer. Why?"

To his credit, Hopkins looked ashamed. It wasn't that Greg didn't understand the frustration of the other officer and not having had the slightest clue about the identity of the killer after six murders; the exhaustion after a night looking over the files again and again; the silent desperation because time was running out and new bodies could turn up any moment.

In fact, he was sure that every police officer experienced the temptation to make evidence appear at least once in his career. Most didn't give into it. But those that did...

And suddenly he felt angry and would probably have started shouting, but John simply said "Greg" – naturally it was the doctor who noticed what he was about to do, Sherlock was too focused on Hopkins – and he took a deep breath and decided to be angry about what Hopkins had done later.

Even though he probably would never forgive for not having seen it.

"Where did you get the keys?" he demanded before Sherlock could. He sounded bitter and hostile but he didn't care.

Hopkins let himself fall into his chair looked down at his desk, defeated. Then he mumbled something and Greg, not feeling disposed to be patient, barked, "What?".

Hopkins looked up. "I got them in the mail."

"And how..." Sherlock interrupted. "Of course. You and Greg had interrogated him – you even had him come to Scotland Yard for an interview, if the files can be trusted. Most likely he was late and therefore didn't take the time to put them away before entering the Yard. That's why you recognized them. Stupid of me".

Once again, Sherlock considered himself stupid for something most people would never have thought of, but the familiarity of it all soothed Greg a bit.

"And of course" Sherlock added, obvious disdain in his voice, "You have no idea who sent you the keys".

Hopkins shrugged his shoulders. "I thought it was – "

"What if it was the killer?" John interrupted. "I know we said only the police knew they suspected Dowling, but it can't be that difficult to find out all you need to know about a police investigation, especially if the task force is questioning a suspect..." He shot the DI a look. "Sorry Greg."

"No worries."

"I think you're right, John" Sherlock announced, glaring daggers at Hopkins. "Congratulations, Hopkins. You put an innocent man in jail with the help of the true murderer."

"I was convinced it was Dowling – we all were!" the DI tried to defend himself.

Sherlock simply shook his head. "I find that hard to believe. A whole team and not one who doubted your theory? You saw what you wanted to see. I assume you got rid of the envelope?"

Hopkins nodded miserably. Sherlock turned around and left the room, John went to follow him but turned around at the door to make sure Greg was coming too.

"It's alright, John" the DI said. The doctor didn't seem convinced, but decided to trust his friend and followed the consulting detective.

Hopkins looked at Greg. "I am going to quit."

Greg nodded. "You are aware – "

"Of course I know that you will report me. I am not stupid. No matter what you may think of me now."

Greg sighed and turned around. There was nothing else to say. Hopkins was a good police officer who had let his ambition and his frustration cloud his judgement and now he would have to pay the price for it.

Sherlock and John were waiting for him in his office.

"So, now we now Dowling was framed and by whom" the consulting detective said, "We can concentrate on catching the killer".

"We didn't catch him twelve years ago" Greg answered bitterly as he sat down behind his desk, "What makes you think we are going to catch him now?"

"Easy" Sherlock replied, his eyes sparkling, "You didn't have me or John twelve years ago".

And that, Greg had to admit, was entirely true.

**Author's note: So, obvious twist out of the way. Even though I am rather proud of my idea that the killer found out about the police's suspicion and decided to send the one DI who would try to frame Dowling because he saw what he was... Okay, I am getting too excited. And nerdy. Sigh.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's note: So now they have to deal with finding out the truth about Hopkins... and of course catch the killer. **

**I tried to make Hopkins somewhat three-dimensional and not the usual corrupt officer who simply decided on a whim that he wanted to fabricate evidence... **

**I don't own anything, please review.**

Sherlock apparently wanted to go over the case again, along with John, look over the files and make sure no evidence had been overlooked – and, if it had, Sherlock Holmes was certainly the man to find it – while Greg stayed at the Yard, trying to come to terms with what he had just learned. He had suspected it – how could he not? – after Sherlock had decided that Hopkins was most likely to have done it, and maybe he had suspected it ever since he had realized that Dowling was innocent – and yet, being sure, having to understand that a man he had once worked with was responsible (although he couldn't shake the feeling that he might be responsible as well) wasn't easy.

He had to report him; he would report him; and yet –

How he wished he didn't have to. But he was sure that Hopkins wouldn't do it himself – would simply quit, without giving a reason – and he couldn't allow that. When they had become policemen, they had been aware that they would always have to be just. And Hopkins would have to pay the price for what he did. It didn't matter that Greg was sure, remembering his colleagues' crestfallen face, that Hopkins had long since come to regret what he had done. He could have confessed; he could have spared Dowling several years in prison. He hadn't, and, if there had been no new murders (maybe the killer was tired of his handiwork being associated with someone else, Greg mused) he probably never would have. He would have left an innocent man in prison – but, no. He had honestly thought Dowling was the killer.

And yet – to fabricate evidence, even if you believed you did the right thing –

It was inacceptable.

Greg wished that the man had at least kept the envelope, but he knew it was too much to ask. Another trail to the killer that had gone cold. Sitting here and doing nothing wouldn't change a thing, however, and so he stood up and joined Sherlock and John, although he had to look twice to realize that he wasn't hallucinating.

John seemed to be just as shocked as he was, because apparently Sherlock was going through the evidence once again – with Donavan. As far as Greg could tell, he was questioning her closely whether anything had been moved or Anderson had "ruined anything", and she wasn't angry about it, didn't insult him, simply answered his questions.

Greg walked over to John, and the doctor shrugged when he saw his questioning glance. "She returned to her desk when he had just left your office" he whispered "and Sherlock started questioning her about the crime scene because "we might as well do something productive", and she doesn't mind... She even called him by his first name".

"Anything else I should know?" Greg whispered back. "Does the sun suddenly go around the earth?"

"I'm sure it's only a matter of time" John answered and looked over to where Sherlock and Donavan were still discussing the crime scene.

The sergeant had just gone for coffee and seen the fre- Sherlock and Doctor Watson leave the DI's office when she returned. To her own surprise, she realized that she was relieved to find the consulting detective looked normal – or as close to normal as he could get, being Sherlock Holmes.

So she did what she usually did when she wanted to be polite to him – she ignored him. They hadn't really spoken to each other since he had returned from the dead, to be honest; they either insulted each other – although, at least on her side, with much less vigour than before – or they ignored each other.

Not today. Today Sherlock saw her and immediately strolled over to her desk, asking, "Sally, have you got a moment?"

"Sure" she replied before she even had had time to process what he'd just said. She was too shocked to answer anything else, really, and later she would realize that she would have answered "Yes" anyway.

Only later would she remember that he had called her Sally – again – without insulting her first or spitting the name out like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

As she answered his questions – trying not to smirk when he wanted to make absolutely sure that Anderson hadn't tampered with the evidence – she saw DI Lestrade slowly walk up to them. He looked rather pale. She almost laughed when she saw the disbelief in his face, matching Doctor Watson's. And yet...

As she answered Sherlock's questions (he was repeating them, but not, she thought, because he believed her incapable of answering them the first time around, but because he liked to hear important evidence repeated – she'd known about this little quirk of his for years now) she noticed the DI's posture and the way he seemed to slightly lean away from Doctor Watson. Sherlock's flatmate, now that she looked closely, wasn't standing as close to him as he normally would. Had the consulting detective and her boss had a fight? Was this why Sherlock had been so – upset (for lack of a better word)?

She became aware that Sherlock was looking at her strangely, and against her will she blushed. He knew what she had been thinking, she knew that she had been...

She swallowed and blushed some more. She had been _deducing_. She had analyzed the situation like he would – maybe not exactly. Sherlock would have been quicker and he would have had no doubts. And yet... the consulting detective was staring at her as if she had just grown a second head (probably his reactions to seeing anyone who wasn't himself think – and, all of a sudden, she became aware she had thought this fondly).

When DI Lestrade and Doctor Watson realized they had stopped talking – and that Sherlock was scrutinizing her – they walked over to her desk.

Before one of them could inquire what was going on, however, she asked, "Have there been any developments?"

Only to realize that she hadn't asked her boss, as she had meant to do, but Sherlock. Maybe because she had done nothing but look at his face for the past two minutes, she saw the quick look he shot the DI, and the almost imperceptible nod her boss gave him in return.

Sherlock Holmes had just asked his – his friend for permission, and not immediately told her something DI Lestrade might not want her to know. He had made sure he could share the information.

And she had thought him a sociopath. She flushed again, but this time with shame. Luckily, the consulting detective wasn't as apt at reading feelings as he was at reading thoughts. Doctor Watson was very good at it, however – and she saw his amused and somewhat triumphant smile. She deserved it.

"Dowling is innocent" Sherlock announced, and she needed a moment to understand what he was saying.

"Shit" she finally said.

"I agree with you there" Her boss sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

"And the – the car keys?" She looked from Sherlock over Doctor Watson to her boss. All of them seemed uncomfortable, so –

"He was framed" she exclaimed. "By the killer?" she asked, hoping that no police man had had his hand in it.

This hope was quickly dashed when DI Lestrade replied, almost whispering so no one would overhear what he was about to say, "It was Hopkins. He admitted it".

"Hopkins?" She was surprised. Hopkins was a good police officer. Not exactly nice or particularly pleasant, it was true, but he got results. She had worked with him for a while after Sherlock's – disappearance, and they had been a good team. She hadn't enjoyed working with him as much as she did with DI Lestrade, but that in itself meant nothing. Some Sergeants worked better with some Inspectors, that was just how it was.

"And.." she began, not sure what to ask. Reporting a colleague was always difficult, and some other colleagues tended to look at you as something of a traitor, no matter what the colleague in question had done.

"He is going to quit" her boss interrupted her, "and I am going to report him".

All of them knew that that meant he hadn't reported him yet. Sherlock said nothing, even though he probably wanted to say something about how DI Lestrade should "report Hopkins immediately" and not let "sentiment cloud his judgement", and she respected him for it.

She nodded. "And the killer..."

"He was the one to send Hopkins the keys".

"We don't know that for sure – " John tried to object, but Sherlock waved a hand in his direction. "Who else would have an interest in Hopkins being arrested? I freely admit that he wasn't what one would call a "nice person", but no one would follow a police investigation simply in hopes that one day Hopkins would become the main suspect and they could frame him".

"Of course" John mumbled.

Sherlock turned to Sally again. "Could you ask Anderson if he did run the DNA sample from the victim's finger nails or if he decided it was beneath him?"

She managed not to smile – barely – and couldn't help but think that she would prefer not to have to talk to Anderson, despite everything.

DI Lestrade seemed to notice this and sighed. "Is there anyone who still likes Anderson?"

No one answered, and Sally left to ask the forensic tech.

Needless to say, he was not pleased.

"Of course I ran it, who does the psycho think he is?"

Sally huffed, annoyed at her ex-lover. "And you didn't think it was important for us to know that the killer is not in the system?" Then, she added, "And he's not a psycho".

"Sure he isn't. Getting off on dead bodies..."

"Shut up" she interrupted him. "I think faking his death so that his friends – "

"We only have his word for that" he interrupted her. Then he sneered. "Developing a crush on him too, like the morgue-mouse? Sorry, I don't think he's into living people..."

"Get back to work or I will report the fact that you insulted a colleague" she answered, forcing herself to stay calm.

When she returned, Sherlock was in the DI's office, looking over the crime scene photos yet again. She informed them that the killer wasn't in the system and went back to her desk.

Greg looked at Sherlock. He seemed surprised. "I was sure the killer would have committed lesser crimes before he graduated to murder..."

John nodded. "You don't wake up one day and think "Hey, I want to become a serial killer".

"Is it possible" Greg inquired, "that the killer managed to hack the system and remove his DNA? We know he is highly organised and intelligent."

Sherlock frowned. "It just might be."

"How could we find it out, even if it were true?"

"I think I might be able to help, Inspector".

The three turned around to find Mycroft Holmes standing in the door of Greg's office, and the Inspector flinched. He should have known that the older Holmes would show up at some point.

**Author's note: Hehehe... No one upsets Sherlock without Mycroft noticing.**

**And I love him so much. I had to put him in.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's note: First of all: This chapter is not going to be that long either. Real life, my friends.**

**And there is going to be a lot of Mycroft. Because I love him. He embodies what every older sibling would love to be able to do. And because my fics (at least the longer ones) tend to suffer from all-characters-have-to-appear-syndrome. That reminds me... Did I miss anyone? I'm sure there's someone I could make appear...**

**So maybe you shouldn't expect too much plot in this chapter either. Also, I have no idea when this fic is going to be finished. Business as usual, I'd say.**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

Mycroft Holmes still kept an eye on his younger brother, of course he did. He had always looked after Sherlock, and he wouldn't stop now that he had returned from the dead.

Especially because he felt that he had given Moriarty the information that had ultimately led to Sherlock's downfall. And, while he had helped Sherlock during the last two years of his exile, he didn't think the debt had been paid yet.

Although Sherlock had forgiven him – or, more accurate, he had offered him a "clean slate" – to forget about everything that had marred their relationship in the past and start over.

He had expected, how could he not? It was all he'd ever wanted. Finally being allowed to call on Sherlock – and John – to have tea with his younger brother, to slowly grow close to him again.

He still kept an eye on him, though. Sherlock easily got himself in trouble, and he was always ready to interfere.

The only reason he hadn't shown up at Scotland Yard immediately when Sherlock had left DI Lestrade's office was because he'd realized his little brother would immediately run to his blogger, and Sherlock had stayed at St. Bart's afterwards, with Miss Hooper, who had been kind enough to help him arrange his disappearance almost four years ago. And Mycroft had decided, as soon as Sherlock had reappeared, that he would only interfere in case of an emergency. He trusted his brother, and it was time that Sherlock finally understood it.

And then his brother had stormed out of the DI's office looking considerably agitated, and Mycroft, after seeing his face on the cameras, had been worried enough to cancel all his meetings scheduled for this afternoon. Sherlock might need him, after all.

Mycroft didn't know what had happened in the DI's office, simply because no one at Scotland Yard had bothered to install a camera there (a mistake he never would have made; DI Lestrade was important, and his supervisors should really have noticed this by now). And not even he wanted to risk having a camera installed at Scotland Yard – should it be found, it could very easily su7ggest terrorism to the police force.

So he hadn't seen what had taken place between them. But he saw how Sherlock reacted – Anthea had alerted him as soon as his brother had stormed out of the office – and realized that the DI must have done something.

Considering John Watson stormed into his office half an hour later, apparently rather angry, it was more than possible; it was certain.

Sadly enough, the cameras in St. Bart's morgue were focused on the area where the bodies lay and at the entrance, so that Mycroft didn't know what Sherlock told John.

True, it seemed that the DI and Sherlock had reconciled, but Mycroft didn't learn what had taken place between them during that conversation either. The DI's back was to the camera so he couldn't lip-read the apology, and Sherlock, of course, didn't discuss what had happened.

Which was why he finally decided to drive top Scotland Yard himself; Sherlock's face had told him enough. Something serious must have taken place. And just because Sherlock had forgiven his friend didn't mean Mycroft had to.

Or that he wasn't allowed to check up on his younger brother when he felt like it, and right now, he most definitely felt like it. He couldn't forget the look on Sherlock's face as he had left the DI's office.

So he got in a limousine and was driven to Scotland Yard, where he simply strode through the crowd of police men; he had long ago learned that you simply had to be self-confident to get where you wanted.

He did, however, notice Sergeant Donavan's eyes following him as he walked towards the DI's office – she knew who he was, she had, despite everything, been at Sherlock's funeral, looking so guilty that he had decided not to bear her a grudge – and she seemed – relieved?

Not that it surprised Mycroft. While Sherlock certainly hadn't noticed, firmly believing that the best way to deal with annoying people politely was to ignore them, Donavan had grown rather... protective of him ever since he returned. Making sure he was safe at crime scenes, scowling at her ex-lover when he insulted Sherlock. And now she apparently had even realized something had happened between the DI and Sherlock.

She might be useful after all, if this continued.

He filed the information away for further notice and opened the door of the office just in time to hear their newest theory. Until Anthea had alerted him that something was wrong, he had been in meetings all day – in fact, his last few days had been busy, even judging by his standards – and he hadn't paid attention to the case his brother was working on. He'd simply sent Sherlock the requested information without wondering why his brother needed it. Seeing DI Lestrade's face, he decided he would have to take more care in the future. Especially since he could tell, from both John's and Sherlock's postures, that whatever had happened was still on their minds.

"Although I would like to hear about the case before I do" he added after his offer of help.

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, but, if Mycroft didn't deceive himself, not without a certain exasperated fondness.

John started to talk, maybe because the doctor realized that the DI was unable and Sherlock unwilling to talk.

He didn't mention the fight Sherlock and Lestrade must have had, but he must be aware that was why Mycroft had come in the first place.

Sherlock and Lestrade knew it too – they had to – and Mycroft felt the nervous looks the DI shot him when he thought he wasn't looking. But since he could remember Sherlock's face, he didn't feel particularly guilty.

After John had finished, Mycroft nodded and turned to the DI. "Do you need help with Hopkins too?"

Lestrade shook his head. "I already dealt with him."

In Mycroft's opinion, that was far from true; if it had been one of his colleagues, he would have been fired already – and on his way to the Continent, most likely. But he wasn't surprised that the DI preferred Hopkins to quit himself and report him afterwards. He had never been one for grand gestures – which was why he had never expected any thanks for helping Sherlock all these years ago.

So he let the subject drop – he could make sure that Hopkins really quit afterwards – and said, "So you need to find someone who hacked into the police's computer system and deleted his file."

Sherlock nodded. "Highly intelligent, most likely a white male, by now he should be about forty-five years old".

"I will see what I can do". Mycroft walked to the door, then turned around and asked, "Do you wish any other steps to be taken?"

Sherlock knew what he meant, he always did. He even glanced at the DI before he answered, "No, Mycroft. Everything is fine".

Mycroft took this to mean that it probably wasn't, but it would be, and John was there, so he supposed he could well leave them alone.

Anthea was sitting in the limousine when he returned, having rescheduled his afternoon.

"Is there something you want me to do, sir?" she asked, appearing calm, even though Mycroft could hear the well-concealed worry in her voice, and he hid a smile.

"No, thank you".

She nodded and he told the driver to bring him back to his office.

**Author's note: Like I said, awfully short chapter, but I didn't want to leave my followers without an update.**

**Maybe my protective instinct ran away with me a little... Don't touch my brother, don't insult my brother, don't even think about doing anything that might upset my brother. Ever. Just saying.**

**And for someone who says "Caring is not an advantage", Mycroft certainly does it a lot, I'd say.**

**Did I put a Mycroft/Anthea hint there? I'm not sure. Oh well.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's note: I have to apologize for the shorter chapters. Hopefully, this one will be longer. Also, I think, but I cannot be sure, that we are near the end. I have an idea where this is going, but sometimes it takes another direction altogether... We'll see, I guess. **

**I don't own anything, please review.**

„How long do you think Mycroft will need to find the hacker?" John asked.

Sherlock looked at him. "Half an hour at the most, I would say."

"Good" John replied. "Then we are going to get something to eat".

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, I have told you time and time again – "

"Yes, I know, transport here, digestion slows you done there" John interrupted. "But I know for a fact that you have barely eaten anything in the last two days and that is not healthy. You will get something to eat."

Sherlock wanted to protest, but recognized the tone in his blogger's voice; John wouldn't allow him to skip another meal.

And, maybe, although he hated to admit it to himself, he could use a break. He had allowed Mycroft to take over his investigation, just like that, and –

All because he –

Because he had grown too sentimental over the years he had been gone, and now he was paying the price for it. Then, again, he wouldn't have expected Greg to insult him in this way...

"Sherlock?" He blinked and found John standing in front of him. The doctor smiled. "Coming?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Greg, we'll be back in half an hour".

"Sure" the DI answered, starting to go through some files on his desk, and Sherlock frowned. If even he needed a break from the case, his DI must be more than exhausted. John, from the look he shot Greg, seemed to think the same, but apparently decided that it was enough for the time being to get Sherlock to eat, and ostensibly left the office, expecting Sherlock to follow him, which he did.

Donavan looked up when they walked past her desk. "Doctor Watson... Sherlock" she said, and John decided he would have to ask Sherlock whether anything had happened between him and the Sergeant. Donavan normally wasn't this – he could almost call it considerate.

Not only this, but she was looking at Sherlock almost as if she was concerned about him, and had been, if he remembered correctly, ever since they returned to the Yard. And Sherlock, for that matter, seemed to notice it too, because, as he swept past her, he informed her casually that they were "going to get something to eat".

"So..." John started as they walked towards the elevators.

"So what?" Sherlock asked.

"Donavan" John explained as they entered the elevator. "What's going on there?"

"Nothing" Sherlock replied in his best "obvious"-voice, and John sighed. "You know what I mean. She was almost nice."

Sherlock smirked and stared at the elevator doors as they descended. "I bumped into her after – after Greg and I had had the fight".

John swallowed down the anger he was once again feeling when he heard Sherlock sounding so sad, and inquired, "And?"

"She wanted to know if everything was alright – and when Anderson came up to us and called me a freak, she told him to "piss off"".

"She did what?" John asked. And he had thought her being concerned about Sherlock would be the biggest surprise he would get today.

Sherlock shrugged. "I assume she is still feeling guilty for having believed Moriarty".

"I think it's more than that" John argued. "I think she is finally coming around to the fact that you are human after all".

"I hope not" Sherlock answered matter-of-factly. "I would have to be somewhat polite to her then, and you know how I abhor having to follow social conventions".

"You might have mentioned it" John replied fondly and they left the elevator and went to a small restaurant neat Scotland Yard. Sherlock might by the expert when it came to London, but the doctor knew most of the restaurants around Baker Street, Scotland Yard and St- Bart's by now – one could never know when Sherlock would start to show signs of malnutrition during a case, for all of John's care to keep him at least hydrated.

During the meal – Sherlock only ordered a starter, but he ate something, so John wasn't complaining – the doctor couldn't help but ask, "Are you – "

"It's fine". Sherlock looked up and saw his best friend's expression. Sighing, he admitted. "Alright. Not yet fine. But going to be. He is under a lot of stress and he is genuinely sorry".

John nodded and went back to his plate.

They had just finished when Sherlock's text alert rang.

The consulting detective took out his phone and read the message before jumping up. His eyes glittered.

"Come on, John, Mycroft found him!"

Greg was going through the paperwork, glad that John had made Sherlock take a break. This case was nothing if not exhausting.

He decided to call Hopkins' office to see if the DI had already done as he'd promised, and this seemed to be the case, for he didn't pick up his phone and Greg knew for a fact that Hopkins preferred to send his Sergeant to the crime scenes and organize everything from behind his desk, another reason they had never really seen eye to eye.

After about a quarter of an hour, Donavan knocked on his door and he bade her enter. She brought some more files that needed signing, but he knew she was just checking up on him. He gave her a smile – after Sherlock's disappearance, the only thought that had made her presence bearable had been the he was as much to blame as her, but he couldn't deny that she had certainly shown some potential ever since the consulting detective's return, especially this afternoon, when she had calmly and politely answered his questions – and even Sherlock had seemed not to mind her presence.

After she'd gone, he sighed and put his head in his hands. It was time to report Hopkins. The DI had left his office, or at the very least, he wasn't answering his phone because he was composing his letter of resignation. It was also time to tell his boss Dowling was innocent so that they could start the bureaucratic nightmare that would eventually lead to him being released.

Greg sighed again, stood up and made his way to the Chief Superintendent's office, only stopping once, to tell Donavan where he was going.

The Chief Superintendent wasn't pleased to see him, but he never was. After Sherlock had apparently committed suicide, he had blamed Greg for everything (not that the DI had needed someone to do that for him, he'd blamed himself enough already) and Greg was certain that he knew that he had tried to hinder the search for Sherlock and John and warned the consulting detective about his arrest. The DI suspected that the only reason he hadn't been suspended or fired was because Mycroft had prevented it. Even after Sherlock had been proven innocent and had returned, the Chief Superintendent's attitude towards him hadn't changed – even though he mostly stayed out of Greg's way and certainly hadn't said anything against him calling Sherlock in to consult on cases once again.

Therefore, his reaction to Greg's news wasn't exactly favourable. Especially since he'd never had anything against Hopkins; Hopkins had never questioned him and hadn't tried to safe a friend he had wanted arrested.

At first, he simply refused to believe him, until Greg told him that Hopkins had indeed confessed to framing Dowling – and in front of witnesses, too. For a moment, the DI thought the Chief Superintendent would object to Sherlock and John being reliable witnesses, but then he seemed to remember something (probably a threat of Mycroft's) and said nothing, instead starting to question the Dowling case. Greg had expected this; he had been the officer in charge.

After fifteen minutes of repeatedly answering the same questions, though, he was starting to get anxious; Mycroft could be in touch any minute, and he certainly didn't want Sherlock and John to go after a serial killer who had left absolutely no evidence in his first six murders on their own.

"Sir" he interrupted the Chief Superintendent, "I am sorry, but I am expecting a new development. Could we please postpone this until the case is closed?"

Before Sherlock's fall, he couldn't have allowed himself to talk like this to his boss, but since he was obviously under the protection of the British Government, he decided it was well worth a try.

And, indeed, the other man fell silent and answered finally, "That would probably be for the best".

He couldn't resist adding, though, "Of course Hopkins must immediately be arrested. Why didn't you take the appropriate measures immediately?"

"I thought I should talk it over with you before I did that, sir" Greg answered smoothly "and I figured it would be better for the reputation of Scotland Yard if DI Hopkins decided to resign prior to the steps being taken".

He didn't mention his scruples and his guilt at not having seen it, but he didn't think the Chief Superintendent would notice it anyway.

His boss nodded and reached for his phone. "I'll send Dimmock to make the arrest while you concentrate on solving the case."

"DI Dimmock, sir?" Greg asked, taken aback. The younger DI had worked with Hopkins when he'd been a Sergeant; it didn't feel right to let him make the arrest.

"Exactly. To show the public – this whole thing will be a nightmare when the press finds out – that we are completely unbiased."

"But sir..." Greg started, then trailed off. He wouldn't be able to change his mind. And, seeing as the Chief Superintendent would call Dimmock as soon as he left, he couldn't even warn the other DI. He stood up, held back a sigh and left the office with the intention of buying his young colleague a coffee when he saw him the next time.

When he reached Donavan's desk, he informed her of the developments, and he could see that she was wondering what it would be like to have to arrest him. He couldn't blame her; to have to arrest a colleague was bad enough, but someone who had once been one's supervisor...

Sherlock, of course, who arrived with John only minutes later and happily dragged Greg to his office (although he did greet Donavan with a nod), knew immediately what had happened.

"So – who is going to arrest him?" he asked.

"Dimmock. He used to be his Sergeant" Greg answered, and John stared at him.

"What? He is sending a guy who used to work under him?" Of course the ex-soldier wouldn't understand, would feel that this was punishing Dimmock more than Hopkins.

Sherlock noticed John's shock too, and tried to make them both feel better by announcing, "Dimmock is as intelligent as a young detective can get – I'm sure he'll be fine" and Greg hid a smile when he remembered that Dimmock had been one of the few detectives to still believe in Sherlock after his disappearance (in fact, they had come to like each other quite well, ever since the younger DI had decided to give Greg his condolences) and that Sherlock, ever since his return, had always picked up his phone when Dimmock called.

"So... About the case" Greg said, and Sherlock immediately started talking.

"Jason Betson, forty-five. According to Mycroft, he already committed several break-ins in his teens before graduating to GHB. Attempted rape when he was thirty-one. Had his prostate removed in his early twenties and his been impotent ever since, according to his medical record. He is a computer engineer – and one of the best ones in London. Which explains how he could hack into Scotland Yard's files".

"Address?" Greg asked, finally feeling like this case would be over soon.

"Ealing Road 63. About half an hour from here".

"Let's go. And, yes, Sherlock, I am coming with you."

"I wasn't going to suggest anything different". With that, they left the office; Greg told Sally to call for back up and meet them there, aware that he was doing exactly what he had always told Sherlock not to do, but right now, he didn't care. They finally had a suspect.

They mostly spent the car drive in silence. After they had driven for about twenty minutes, Greg's phone rang, and he saw to his surprise that Dimmock was calling him. Hopkins didn't live far from the Yard; Dimmock must be there by this point. Maybe Hopkins had made a run for it.

He picked up.

"Yes?"

"DI Lestrade..." Greg frowned. Dimmock sounded shaken.

"What is it?"

"It's DI Hopkins..." Greg could feel his skin begin to crawl, and swallowed. He had heard that tone of voice before.

"He didn't open his door, so I looked through the window – He shot himself, sir. He's dead".

Greg took a deep breath and Sherlock and John looked at him, worry in their eyes.

That Dimmock had automatically called him "sir" told Greg all he needed to know about the younger man's state of mind.

"Alright – where are you?"

"Outside". It was clear that the DI would prefer not to go back in.

"You called in the forensics and an ambulance?"

"Yes, sir".

"Good, then – you wait for them there. There is no reason for you to go back in. I'm on my way to arrest a suspect, but we'll definitely talk later. If I can't come to his house, at the Yard. Alright?"

"Yes. Thank you". Dimmock sounded relieved and a little less shocked, and he had stopped calling him "sir" which Greg took as a good sign.

"No, thank you for telling me. Goodbye".

And he hung up, looking at his friends.

"Hopkins?" Sherlock inquired.

Greg nodded.

"Dead" John said. It wasn't a question, and Greg nodded again.

He held up a hand before either of them could say anything.

"Let's deal with the case first".

They understood and said nothing as the car sped towards their suspect's house.

**Author's note: Dimmock happened. It makes for an even more dramatic story. **

**So, yeah... Having Hopkins commit suicide seemed right. No, not "right" – but I tried to portray him as someone whose work was his life and who couldn't go on with the knowledge that what he'd done would come out.**

**Longer chapter! Me happy!**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's note: I am rather sure (not completely because it's me) that we are nearing the end. I have to wrap everything up, of course – which is why I can't say how many more chapters there will be. **

**Well, enough of my incoherent ramblings. Thanks for the reviews, you made my day.**

**I don't own anything. **

Greg knew he should be concentrating on Betson, especially since they were only a few minutes away from his house now, but all he could think about was Hopkins. And how could he not? He had known the man for over fifteen years, he had worked with him.

And, even though he knew it was illogical (Sherlock would probably call it "idiotic"), he felt responsible for what happened. Naturally – it was only human to think so. If he hadn't made Hopkins confess –

But he had to. He couldn't very well have left Dowling in prison.

He felt angry at Hopkins, too. That selfish coward. He had taken the easy way out. Yes, he had made a mistake for which he would have paid... but that didn't mean his life would have been over. He could have fought, he could have found another job, he could have been strong. Instead he'd chosen the easy way out – apparently even without resigning before he did it; at least the Chief Superintendent hadn't mentioned anything about Hopkins contacting him.

And what about Dimmock? He would never forget the day he'd found his former DI lying in his own blood. Greg almost wished he had been the one to find him – just almost, though, because he certainly wouldn't have wanted to see it.

Sherlock and John were silent. The consulting detective was probably wondering what to do and trusting John's guidance as usual, and the doctor had thankfully understood Greg's plea not to talk about it until they had arrested Betson.

Soon enough the car halted and he told the young DC who had driven them there to wait. Betson might be dangerous, but he had the world's only consulting detective and an ex-army doctor by his side; plus, he wouldn't expect them to have found anything on him.

The man who opened the door wasn't exactly what Greg had been expecting. True, during his years as a police officer, he had learned not to judge from appearances, but this man certainly didn't look like a killer. He was comfortably dressed in jeans and a sweater, was taller than Greg, and handsome; he had dark hair and green eyes.

But what really surprised Greg was the pleasant smile he gave them. Usually there was something in the smile of a person who had killed; something not quite right, a certain hollowness, telling of a border that had been crossed. Greg had learned to recognize this smile over the years.

No, this man didn't seem like a killer. But they would know soon enough. At the very least, he had deleted his file, and that alone was enough to question him. And, of course, Greg reminded himself, judging by the contents of the deleted file, he could hardly be as pleasant as he looked.

"Jason Betson?" he asked.

"Yes?" their suspect answered, looking them over, his eyes staying on Sherlock a little bit too long, and Greg realized that he had recognized the consulting detective and that his smile had dimmed a bit.

"I'm DI Greg Lestrade, and these are Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson" he introduced them, "We need to talk to you about a case we have been working on. May we come in?"

He stepped to the side without a word and let them in. Greg had to admit that it was a very nicely decorated house; the furniture seemed to be rather expensive. Sherlock was busy taking everything in, his eyes sweeping over the hallway and the living room Betson led them to, and Greg knew he was preparing for the interview. John was walking directly behind the suspect, obviously making sure there was no weapon near him. Greg hid a smile. They were a good team.

Betson offered them tea, which they declined, and sat down in a chair opposite the sofa. Sherlock sat down too, but Greg and John preferred to stand.

"So, how can I be of assistance, Inspector?" Betson asked, looking at the DI, and just for a moment, he thought he'd seen worry in those eyes.

"Yesterday a young couple was killed in their home" he replied, carefully waiting for a reaction that never came. Betson was either innocent or a great liar, and since Sherlock seemed to think him guilty, judging by the way he sat, ready to spring up any minute (he really knew the consulting detective to well), Greg's money was on the latter.

"That is dreadful, Inspector, but I fail to see how I can be of assistance. I certainly don't know anything about those murders".

They weren't going to get anywhere with this line of questioning, so Greg decided to switch tactics.

"You hacked into our computer system and deleted your file, Mr. Betson, which meant you would show up clean on any security check – would you care to explain this?"

Even now, Betson didn't lose his calm. Instead, he gave a small smile that Greg didn't particularly like. It was a smile asking for sympathy, and the DI, who imagined the man working with young women and other people, while he was making his fortune, and remembering his convictions for GBH and attempted rape, wouldn't give him any.

"I am sure you can imagine, Inspector, that for a young man of thirty-one..."

"If I remember correctly, you were thirty-one when you were convicted, Mr. Betson; thirty-three when you got out" Sherlock interrupted. "Because of your good conduct."

His voice was seething with sarcasm; he was trying to draw Betson out. The man, however, didn't react, and Greg was starting to find this calm slightly unnerving. He had seen many reactions of suspects; they were angry, nervous, sad, shocked, but there always an reaction where here, there was none.

Suddenly, Greg was sure they had their man.

"Anyway" the computer engineer resumed, "I was thirty-three and I knew no one would hire me, not with my previous convictions. So I deleted my file. I know it was illegal, and I will gladly submit to any punishment a court might see fit". And he gave them again the smile he had tried earlier, asking for sympathy.

Greg realized that they weren't going to get anywhere. Betson's DNA-profile was in his file, but the test would take time – and the DI didn't want to let the man out of his sight. God knew what he could do with even another twenty-four hours in freedom.

He made a decision.

"Mr. Betson, would you please accompany us to Scotland Yard. There are some things that have to be cleared up".

Betson nodded and stood up before asking politely, "Let me just get my coat".

"I will accompany you" Greg answered, making a sign to Sherlock, who stood up too, and John that it would be alright. He was rather certain that he could take Betson if the suspect tried to attack him – and he had his gun with him. He followed the suspect upstairs.

Of course the man had a whole room just for his clothes; Greg stood beside him as he opened a closet and selected one of a line of obviously very expensive coats.

"You said a young couple was murdered in their home..." Betson began, as he was putting on his coat.

"Yes" Greg answered, wondering why the other man would decide to talk about the murders.

"And you suspect me", Betson smiled, but it was a hollow smile.

Since there was nothing else to do – and Betson wasn't stupid, he would know they had his DNA, since they had managed to save his file, and he knew his last victim had scratched him – Greg nodded. Then he decided that the time for games was over. He was certain Betson was the killer, but why not simply ask him and wait for his reaction? The man wasn't going anywhere.

"Yes – as well as of sic other murders twelve years ago" he announced, carefully watching the suspect's face.

Suddenly, the man's expression changed. His smile became a maniacal grin – not unlike the one Greg had always imagined Moriarty to have, after Sherlock's stories – and said, "You see, I always thought you were the better copper. That's why I sent Hopkins the keys".

"So you confess to the murders" Greg stated calmly.

"Yes, I do. You see, after not committing another murder for twelve long years – the urge just got too strong. But I decided to play fair – I could have killed in other ways, you know. I was just curious whether you would notice – and, if you did, whether you would be willing to admit someone must have framed Dowling. Whether you'd be willing to go over the old cases again. You have not disappointed me."

He finished buttoning up his coat and put his hands in his pockets. "Just out of curiosity: Have you already taken the necessary steps regarding Hopkins?"

For a moment, Greg considered lying, but Betson would find out sooner or later anyway; an overheard word, an article in a newspaper...

"There are no steps necessary" he answered. Betson understood immediately.

"I always thought he was a bit of a coward" he said, eyes sparkling, grin even wider than before, and Greg realized what the other DI was for him: just another victim. Another life destroyed. Hopkins had lived with the guilt of having framed someone for twelve years, and that was why he had been so adamant that Dowling was the killer. It was the only reason why he had still been able to look in a mirror.

Hopkins might have pulled the trigger, but ultimately it had been Betson who had put the gun to his head.

Greg felt himself getting angry, but tried to hide it. He wouldn't give Betson that satisfaction too.

The killer hadn't finished talking, apparently, for he now added, "You see, I kept a close eye on the investigation; being good at hacking into files is rather practical. So I came across Dowling – a good suspect, I have to admit, but a little bit too stupid to have pulled of something like that. And I watched you – from afar. Hopkins was even more frustrated than you were, angry because he wasn't allowed to lead the hunt, and too ambitious for his own good.

I must say I'm rather pleased you brought in Sherlock Holmes; I've been a big fan of John Watson's blog for quite a while now."

Somehow, hearing Betson pronounce Sherlock's and John's name with such glee didn't sit right with Greg. He was growing increasingly uncomfortable.

"Mr. Betson, I suggest we go now".

"Oh, there's a problem, you see" Betson replied, still grinning. "I have not the slightest intention of being arrested. Of course, I will leave the country – but I won't end up in jail".

"Then maybe you shouldn't have played this game" Greg replied.

The killer shrugged. "I was bored".

He took his right hand from out his coat pocket and pointed the gun he had ("obviously" Sherlock would say, and Greg cursed) kept hidden in the coat for emergencies at Greg.

"I suggest we go down back down to your friends" he said, his eyes gleaming, "And talk about how I will be getting out of here".

Having no other choice, Greg turned around walked down the stairs, cursing his own stupidity.

**Author's note: You thought it was all going to be fine and easy, didn't you? And here I dashed your hopes with a cliffhanger... muahahahahaha!**

**Good God, what am I turning into?**

**I just realized I've never written a story with so many OCs before... **

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's note: I'm sorry – while I'm not conceited enough to believe anyone is waiting for my chapters, I try to put them up as early as I can. The good news is that the next chapter will be the last.**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

Greg slowly walked down the stairs, Betson behind him, holding the gun to his head. The DI wasn't concerned for himself, not really; he knew what John Watson was capable of – although neither Sherlock nor John had ever admitted it (and he would never have thought of reporting them) he was sure that John had shot Jeff Hope about twenty-four hours after he and Sherlock and met. Not that he blamed the doctor: he knew very well what it meant to be a friend of Sherlock Holmes'. He would have shot the murderer too before Sherlock had had the chance to take the pill (he might have told the DI he was "just buying his time", but he really knew better).

Therefore, he was rather more concerned about the murderer, as weird as it sounded, than about Sherlock and John or himself. Three men who were prepared to do anything against one psychopath; really, Betson didn't stand a chance.

They would take out Betson, no matter what, even if it meant risking Greg's life. It was a price he was prepared to pay.

Sherlock and John semmed to have anticipated something like this; or, at the very least, they didn't look surprised. Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow while John took out his gun.

"I wouldn't do that, Doctor Watson" Betson said, pressing his gun into Greg's back head. "We wouldn't want the DI shot, now, would we?"

John looked at Betson, then at Greg, who tried to tell him that he had to shoot Betson with his eyes. Apparently, the doctor didn't understand him or didn't want to listen, because he looked at Sherlock, who nodded, and then slowly lowered his gun.

"Excellent. Now, if you would please lay the gun on the floor and kick it away" Betson demanded cheerfully. John obeyed. Sherlock slowly moved away from his blogger, apparently anticipating John's next logical moving – an attack from both sides – but Betson was having none of it.

"Mr. Holmes, I would very much appreciate it if you would stand beside Doctor Watson".

Sherlock walked back towards his friends, shooting Greg and apologetic look which the DI would never have associated with the consulting detective. The DI swallowed.

"Excellent. Now let's talk about my escape". Betson shoved Greg and he walked in the middle of the room, Sherlock's and John's eyes fixed upon him.

"I imagine..." Greg could see Betson's reflection in the windows of the living room, laughing and throwing his head back. "Why not have Sherlock Holmes turn on his beloved DI and Doctor before killing himself? After all, there are still some people who believe Richard Brook's, or should I say, Moriarty's story and are waiting for him to snap. And I could just "disappear" and they would think he had killed me too."

He seemed to enjoy himself, but that didn't really surprise Greg. Killing the couples, Hopkins... it all had been about power, and right now, with the lives of three people in his hands, he had all the power he could get.

Sherlock stepped in front of John, despite the doctor's attempt to hold him back, and Greg realized what the consulting detective thought. He wouldn't allow anyone to threaten his friends again, not after Moriarty. And if saving his friends meant dying – he would gladly do so.

Obviously he hadn't considered the possibility that his friends couldn't live without him.

Betson noticed, of course, he saw Greg stiffen before him and watched John's reaction in the mirror, trying to nudge the consulting detective out of the line of fire.

"Sherlock Holmes, protecting his friends. How cute". He seemed to remember something and relieved Greg of the weapon that, until now, had been his last hope. "I just noticed... I'm going to need this, ain't I? After all, maybe Sherlock Holmes wouldn't kill himself again – but he could be shot by DI Lestrade at the same moment he shot him..."

Sherlock looked him in the eyes. "And you really think you can walk out of here?"

"What else, Mr. Holmes? You forget I have the gun – two guns, to be precise".

All of a sudden, Sherlock looked at him in an entirely different way, a strange, rather cruel look that Greg had never seen on him before. It didn't suit him; it made him look like someone else, and the DI wondered whether this was the last thing the members of Moriarty's network had seen before being "dealt with", as Sherlock called it. The consulting detective had never talked much about what he'd done during those three years – at least not to Greg, although he suspected the doctor knew quite a lot – but he all of a sudden pitied those who had dared to stand in Sherlock's way. And not for the first time he understood why someone like Moriarty had considered Sherlock an ideal archenemy.

And, just like that, he knew exactly what would happen. As in slow motion he saw Sherlock put a hand in his coat and ducked, knowing that he would attack Betson with whatever he had.

Before Betson could react, Sherlock threw a knife at him; the blade buried itself into his left shoulder, and he cried out in pain, staggering back, while Greg grabbed the gun he had held in his hand and wrenched it from its grasp; he could hear Sherlock and John behind him, the doctor obviously training his gun on the computer engineer once again, while the consulting detective was trying to get behind the killer.

Betson, while holding on to the knife in his shoulder, gave Greg a kick in the stomach and Greg staggered back, without letting go of the weapon, already wondering when Betson would remember that he had taken Greg's gun too.

The other man took the gun out of his coat pocket and pointed it at Greg.

"That's quite enough, thank you" he stated, polite as ever. "You've had your chance, and I must admit I didn't think you'd be able to throw a knife like that, Mr. Holmes".

"Thank you" Sherlock answered, just as clam as Betson. "Normally my aim is better, but I didn't want to hurt DI Lestrade."

Greg, slowly walking backwards and came to stand beside John, Betson's gun trained on the wounded killer. It was, however, a hopeless situation; none of them would dare shoot first. And Betson had the advantage of not caring about a single person in the room except himself while the three were trying to protect each other.

"We seem to be in a bit of a predicament, don't we" Betson commented.

"Obviously" Sherlock answered.

"That doesn't mean I can't have some fun, though" the killer replied.

And then he fired.

Greg felt a burning sensation on his right arm and fell down. He must have struck his head, for everything went dark for a few moments, but he thought he'd heard a gunshot; when he came to, he heard Sherlock's frantic voice, "John? John? Is he alright?" and felt John's hand on his shoulder.

He opened his eyes and found the doctor's fixed intently on his arm. John ripped his coat open – the bullet must already have torn it – and breathed a sigh of relief. "Just a graze, Sherlock" he shouted. "Go easy on him".

"If you consider this "easy"..." he heard Betson mumble and stood up, despite John's protests.

Sherlock was holding Betson, who aside from the knife in his shoulder was now bleeding from a wound on his forehead, down.

"Trust me, this is easy" he growled. "If you had killed Greg, you wouldn't be walking out of this room either."

Greg swallowed and stood up.

"Greg, I don't think you should..." John started, but Greg cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Did you shoot?" he asked the doctor.

John nodded. "Yes, but I only hit the door – I was trying to check on you and not hit Sherlock at the same time. You should know" he added, turning to the consulting detective, "that running at criminals with a gun isn't the best option."

Sherlock shrugged. "It was the only option available – he was confused because of the wound, Greg falling down and you shooting at him anyway."

John obviously decided the discussion wasn't worth continuing and looked Greg over one more time. Before he could say anything, the DI stated, "I'm fine", before walking towards Betsonm and taking out his handcuffs.

"Where's my gun?"

"Here" Sherlock said, holding it up while Greg cuffed Betson. The DI took it gratefully. "John, would you call in the DC, please?" he asked.

The doctor nodded and disappeared. Betson, apparently having decided not to say anything, stared at the wall, and Sherlock smiled at Greg. "So, Inspector, looks like this case is over".

"Yes" Greg answered, smiling up at his friend.

Over at last.

**Author's note: Like I said, there will be another chapter to wrap it all up.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's note: Here it is, the last chapter. More later.**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

Betson said nothing until the ambulance arrived and let himself be taken away, the PC at his side. Greg had made absolutely clear that there was to be always at least one policeman at his side.

While they were waiting, John insisted on cleaning and bandaging his wound, using the first aid kit from the police car they had arrived in. Greg didn't protest; he knew the doctor felt better if he could look after his friends himself.

He watched the ambulance drive away and sighed, bracing himself for what he had to do next.

Sherlock knew what he was thinking, of course. He wouldn't have been the world's only consulting detective if he didn't.

"Should I come with you?" he asked behind him, and Greg turned around to find him and John standing next to each other and looking at him.

He shook his head. "No, this is something I have to do on my own." He hesitated, the added, "And afterwards, we could..."

"No need" Sherlock interrupted him. "I assure you I understand – "

"Sherlock, please" the DI insisted, and the consulting detective shrugged and nodded. He would speak to Sherlock again about their fight; he couldn't allow anything, not even subconscious resentment, to mar their friendship.

Before that, he had to talk to Dowling, though. It wouldn't be right to let a lawyer or prosecutor tell him he had been exonerated. It would be the coward's way out (like the one Hopkins had taken, but he didn't want to think about that now).

So he took the police car, Sherlock and John insisting they would take a cab. It didn't take long to drive to Pentonville, and he was immediately shown into the visiting room. Dowling was brought in a few minutes later.

Greg cleared his throat. "Mr. Dowling – there have been some new developments."

"Oh?" Dowling asked, looking bored. "Have you finally found out that I was innocent?"

"As a matter of fact, yes" Greg replied and watched as Dowling's expression changed into one of shock.

"You were framed by the true killer, a man named Jason Beston" he explained, and wondered if he could be spared to tell him about Hopkins. Probably not. He would find out anyway. "He used one of my colleagues to – "

"Hopkins?" Dowling interrupted.

Greg nodded, surprised. "Yes. How did you know?"

Dowling shrugged. "He always seemed more convinced that I was guilty than you".

They sat in silence for a few moments, until Dowling asked, "What happens now?".

"As soon as I leave here, I'll call the Chief Superintendent – he will make sure you are released as soon as possible. You will, of course, get pecuniary remuneration, although I am aware that it won't bring back the last twelve years". He waited for a moment, then he added, "I'm sorry". It wasn't much and it would never be enough, but he owed him an apology.

Dowling shrugged. "I may be in shock – let's face it, I am, that's a lot to take in – but I know that my car keys at the crime scene where pretty damning evidence. And it was brave of you to come and tell me yourself."

Greg smiled a half-smile and wanted to stand up, when Dowling inquired, "And Hopkins? What – "

"He shot himself after I had confronted him with the truth" Greg answered matter-of-factly.

Dowling didn't say anything anymore, and Greg stood up. "Goodbye, Mr. Dowling. I wish you all the best". And he definitely wished the man would not commit any other crimes. Maybe he would take the second change offered to him.

Dowling nodded. "Goodbye, Inspector".

Greg left Pentonville and drove to the Yard. He wanted to talk to Sherlock, but he had to discuss the case with the Chief Superintendent first.

And there was something else he needed to do.

He went to the Chief Superintendent, not even bothering to knock, and told him what had happened. The other man looked at his torn and bloody coat.

"Looks like a close call". Greg told himself that it was imagining the disappointment in the man's voice-

"It was" he confirmed. "Without Sherlock and John, I wouldn't be standing here".

The Chief Superintendent chose to say nothing, and Greg, who decided he'd had enough of sitting in his office, stood up, saying, "I will have the reports at your desk as soon as possible. Good day to you, sir".

He had almost reached the door when the other man cleared his throat and said, "Good job".

Greg didn't answer and left the office.

He took the elevator to the third floor, where his and Dimmock's offices were situated. Donavan was waiting for him and he remembered, not without a pang of guilt, that he hadn't called her.

By now, she knew what had happened, of course, and he saw her eyes resting on his arm.

"A graze. John cleaned it". She nodded, then asked, "And he and Sherlock – "

"They're fine" he answered, and she gave him a real smile. He smiled back.

She then bit her lip, her smile disappearing and said, keeping her voice down, "DI Dimmock hasn't left his office since he came back, sir. Apparently he only waited for the forensic team and then returned. He hasn't spoken to anyone."

Greg nodded. "I've got it".

He made his way to the younger DI's office and knocked. He waited for the feeble "Enter" and found Dimmock in his chair, his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry" he said, because there was no need to say something else; they both knew why he was here.

Dimmock looked up and nodded, taking a deep breath. "I didn't think he'd be the type" he said, slowly. "But I also didn't think he'd – "

"He was a good police officer who yielded to the temptation of making things easy" Greg replied. "It has happened to others before him".

Dimmock nodded again and stood up, slowly walking to the window and looking out. Then he turned around. "Did you – "

"No, no" Greg hastened to reply, "The Chief Superintendent decided you should be the one to arrest him. I couldn't convince him otherwise. You might have noticed, but he doesn't particularly like me".

Dimmock smiled a weak smile. "I don't think he likes me much either."

"You believed in Sherlock. It's to be expected."

Dimmock shrugged his shoulders. "It's a fair price for his help – he solved a case for me last week in five minutes."

Greg knew all about the case – Sherlock had told him it was "disgustingly easy" – but chose to say nothing.

"I'll be fine, though" Dimmock suddenly announced. "No need to check up on me, s- Lestrade".

Greg smiled. "I knew. I just wanted to make sure". He turned around and left, saying before he opened the door, "Oh, and it's "Greg". Not "sir" or "Lestrade"".

He heard Dimmock chuckle behind him and went to the elevators. He knew where Sherlock would be.

On the way to St. Bart's, he bought a packet of cigarettes.

Sherlock was waiting for him on the roof, as he had thought.

He gave him the packet. "Don' tell John, please. I'll never hear the end of it".

"I wouldn't think of it" Sherlock answered and took out a cigarette, offering another to Greg, who took it without hesitation.

He had purchased a lighter too, and lit both of them.

They stood there, looking over London, smoking quietly, until Greg said, "Sherlock. About our fight. Please, don't interrupt me" he said, when he saw Sherlock opening his mouth.

"I know you don't think it important, but I do. I don't think you are a freak, I never have. I will never forgive myself for what I said."

Sherlock looked at him, a question in his eyes. "Sentiment?"

"Sentiment" Greg confirmed.

Sherlock smiled. "How about we take it for what it was – a mistake – and never talk about it again?"

"Fine by me" Greg said, and answered the smile with one of his own.

They stayed there for the next two hours, talking about cases or nothing, looking over the city and smoking.

And, if his throat felt raw the next day and John called to complain because "He could smell the smoke on Sherlock", Greg couldn't have cared less.

Because being friends with the world's only consulting detective made it all worth it, in the end.

**Author's note: That's it. Please tell me what you thought – I feel it's somehow different from my other stories, more... clinical, cold, perhaps? I don't know.**

**I hope you liked it and have a wonderful day.**

**Hekate**


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